In Roman mythology, the master of the hunt was the goddess Diana. She was praised for her strength, athletic grace, beauty, and hunting skills.

In Freemasonry, she was a symbol of sensibility and imagination, of poets and artists. Shrines were erected in her honor; stags followed her wherever she went; she ruled the forest and the moon.

I like to think that Diana’s influence has never entirely waned, that hunting was never just about men getting together in the woods. Hunting is for all of us, an extension of our being both humans and animals—our first work and craft, one of our original instincts.

Today I am entirely different than the girl and chef who set out four years ago to learn how to hunt a turkey.

There are the obvious differences, such as the fact that I can shoot a deer through the heart without batting an eye, and then promptly take out the innards on the forest floor with only a pocketknife and my bare hands.

I can skin it and then run the knife along the contours of the muscle until it is broken down into manageable parts.

Then, if I want to, I can portion the meat into those elegant pieces we see neatly wrapped up in plastic in the grocery store meat section, with no signs that it was ever a living thing. Except that for me, I will always know.

I will have looked my food in the eye and made a choice; I will have felt the warm innards in my hands as I pulled them out and laid them on the forest floor for the coyotes and the mountain lions to eat.