I’m not the one.

I have no business giving advice, explaining things, pointing out the obvious. But I do. I can’t seem to stop myself. I think it’s partly from all those years of teaching.

I learned myself, progressively knew where I was, and brought the students up to join me, then passed them on.

I never thought of myself as special, removing that burden. I tried not to be alone when I was with people. I balanced my insecurity and turned to others to see what I could do. I so much wanted to contribute, to help. There’s so much help needed.

I forced myself to do things, then, once started, liked it. I felt clumsy, awkward, but persisted, never learned to be together but was always a part. I welcomed metaphor to help me get along.

With like-minded others, we found the joy of working together, making bread, kneading the dough, passing it from hands to hands so we all had a share in the process, then rolling and shaping and baking, drawing out from the oven, circling around the loaf we all made, cutting the slices so we all had a share, putting our own choices, topping to our taste, feasting together on what we had made, sharing the joy of contentment, knowing we could make another loaf, the oven still there.

I was happy to be in the middle of things with regular people. I knew about the upper reaches, had visited, stayed awhile. But I’m not the one to fit right in. I can’t for long breathe that rarefied upper air.

I see them there grazing those elysian fields. I’ll eat almost anything. I’m famous for it, have a reputation. But I usually settle for the plainer comfort food where I live every day in the Mediterranean sun.

I think I love to travel, to mix the old and new. But I’m not the one to take along to help with the luggage. I can barely pull my own weight. And I’m lazy, probably congenitally. I confess it freely.