Bloom.

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Finding purpose has never been an easily hit target, at any point, for myself. Murky waters of doubt surrounding the source of my intentions tend to cause anxiety, and spur retreat. Am I doing this for a real, true, sincere and honest reason? Or is it selfish, rooted in a deep and tangled web of thorny thoughts that demand safety for me, security for me, fulfillment for me, me, me. Has staying here really been a product of outside sources slamming down the windows of opportunity, or have I just drawn the curtains closed? Been surrounded by my own self-imposed serenity of dark, that I don’t recognize light anymore.

Light being change, movement, forward motion. Light being the reason I’ve landed in the desert of adulthood, with a compass called passion.

I don’t think it matters anymore, what it started out as. Selfishness, honest belief I could change the thinking of the place I grew up, all those reasons are just scraps now. Little bits of paper torn from diaries kept by a much younger girl, with a much emptier schedule. Stars aligning, Gods good graces, dumb luck, whatever it is, between the cracks of self-interest and selfless hope, a purpose popped up from the dirt.

Take to give, accept to share, learn to teach. Try to fail and fail to win.

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Everyone enters this field for a different reason. Some want to live out the archetype; brash, rude, intense, a 0-60 personality that’s allowed and embraced because of the environment. It gives license for emotional junkies to let loose.

Sometimes a kitchen is the only haven for an individual that isn’t accepted anywhere else. Records, rap sheets, addictions, disorders – hardly ever are they discriminated against. Kitchens need warm bodies that can punch in and do the shit, they don’t need pristine business models that wear ties.

Among the endless list of other reasons, some people just really love food. Waking up to thoughts about peaches coming into season next month, going to bed with the a plate mock up. Meandering the avenues of daily life with the next meal (to eat, to serve, doesn’t matter) on their mind. That’s my reason. That’s my why.

I don’t stop thinking about food, ever. I don’t stop considering whats next to eat, try, experiment, give, force feed to someone, etc. I could give two shits about the ‘culinary field’ as a whole; that’s the selfish part. Restaurants and kitchens are just venues for me to live out a life that is constantly surrounded by what I love.

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At the crux, that’s the reason I haven’t ventured out of the safe abode of hometown living yet. Food, cooking, serving it (even a certain style, to an extent) is what gets me going day in and day out, but the place in which I do it is less important. The city setting, address, or restaurant name doesn’t hold the same appeal as sharing said passion with people I know, names I care about it, face I see everyday.

When opportunity arises to blend the deeply personal love of the art form, and the fulfillment of sharing it among those closest, it feels validating. More than validating, it feels humbling. Just a nobody, with a mediocre talent level and beloved Sabatier, when given allowance to dive in, is probably going to drown, but will do so in blissful happiness.

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Learning to feel where two feet are currently planted, digging fingers into the soil surrounding them, small of the back against this particular patch of Earth, inhaling the air above and around – it focuses everything. Brings you into the moment, and lets you realize there’s more. You can be selfish and selfless, you can strive for yourself, and give example to others at the same time.

Time to leave that safe, quiet, dark space.

Light is peeking in. It’s time to bloom.

 

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