I don’t always understand how others see me. They seem to see the storm, where I see the calm before and after. They see the trunk or ears, and I see the footprints of the elephant. I don’t really mind, a certain amount of variety is interesting. But I don’t understand it.
Tom complained to me that I was the only one of his friends that seemed stuck, unchanging. Like that was a bad thing somehow. Sure, the rest of our crowd were often swift to embrace the latest fad or fashion, and I do tend to lag the others. But I also avoided some crazy fads, and avoided some wild fashions too.
Like that yarn bombing craze. The crowd knitted everything from socks to scarves for all the inanimate objects in a park, then installed them in the dead of night. Made the papers, but with no names named. It is hard to believe that it was beyond the skills of our crack local reporters to figure out who the pranksters were, after all Tom’s mother works for the paper. But I sat that one out. Sure, I can knit. Can’t everyone? But I didn’t feel like knitting mittens for a seesaw, and didn’t aspire to create those kinds of waves. Apparently Tom and the gang saw that as me grandstanding for a cause!
And yet when someone needs comfort, I’m usually first there with a hug or pat on the back. My pockets usually supply nearly any tool or utensil for whatever wacky scheme the gang has imagined, whether a butter knife or a chain saw.
I’m simply a humble soul. It’s others who have trouble reconciling that with their perceptions of me. I don’t grandstand, I’m simply often right. I try to support their schemes. I’m always there.
I’m just me.