Yesterday I wrote, among other things, about the porcupine who wanted to be a different animal. He followed around other animals, trying to hop like the bunny, scurry like the squirrel, etc. The story concludes by the porcupine recognizing that he would always be a porcupine and accepting that.
I've always thought that that porcupine was very smart in reaching his conclusion in the space of a children's story. And I wonder why I can't find the same wisdom in accepting what I am.
I look at my friends and want to have their talents, their strengths, their skills, their attributes. I want to play the organ like Janet, write like Amanda, be organized like Suzanne, etc. (If I listed all my friends here and their remarkable talents, I'd be writing all day.)
So what's my point? Like the porcupine, I'm me. As I said yesterday, that should be enough.
Joy for today: being me. Warts, or quills, and all.