For many years I lived around the 32nd parallel on Turtle Island near the Great Ocean of the Setting Sun within the bounds of the old Ipai/Kumeyaay nation.

Back then I was sort of normal (sort of). I used to work every day and drive and live in a normal house like most "normal" people. My house and driveway were shaded by many oak trees. In the fall, the acorns would drop by the ton and one evening after work, I drove down my driveway and was caught by the popping noise as I drove over them.

These acorns were the staple of the Ipai. Outside of my house was a large boulder with six morteros (grindingstone holes) ground into it. My house sat upon an area where the indigenous people would camp and gather acorns, grind them, and process them for food. Acorns were their staple and were very sacred to them. And here I was driving my car over them like they meant nothing. After I parked, I wandered back amongst the thousands of acorns littering my driveway. I bent down and examined them, looking at them for the first time in a very different way. I knew there was a way to prepare them, that they needed the tannins leached out of them before they were edible but I had no idea how to do that.

In those days I had a small chiropractic practice in the local community that was close to a couple of the ghettos relegated to the ancestors of the original Turtle Island inhabitants and many of these locals were my patients. I asked one woman who was my age how her people had done the leaching process to make acorns edible and she said, "Ask me about George Washington. I know the same stuff you know. I know almost nothing about my own culture. My grandmother knew how it was done but she's been dead for many years." Happily, that trend is now reversing and the aboriginals of Turtle Island are relearning and passing on their skills and history to their children.

Back to the acorns in my driveway: I picked one up. It had a black spot and a tiny hole in the shell. I grabbed another one. It too had a tiny hole. Only a few of the acorns where pristine. I cracked one of the others open and inside was a tiny, white worm. At first I thought that these acorns were rejects, but then I put myself in the mindset of someone surviving on these. I wondered if maybe the ancient locals might think of this tiny worm in a positive way; perhaps an extra little bit of protein. Two heartbeats later I popped it in my mouth and bit down. It was sweetish, almost like spring water. I cracked open another acorn and ate the little worm. It was delicious. A person could literally collect a handful of these worms and toss them in your mouth like a handful of berries. Nothing objectionable about them at all. Of course in those days I wasn't about to do that!

I have since learned how to process acorn mash. It's a bit bitter, but it's something that one could learn to enjoy, an acquired taste like any food you aren't raised on. That evening when I ate those worms I grew a little in my appreciation of those who had lived in this garden of Eden that my house, garage and car were now parked upon. It was just one step on the path that has brought me to my present state of evolution and I'm grateful that I took the time to wonder and question and act, to pause and "smell the roses," so to speak.

Thank you for this wonderful and inspiring post.