Who am I?

That I should be born here, in a place where freedom exists, where I am warm and dry and have enough to eat? Am I some special creation that God should place me here in a Caucasian body in a middle class family and an intelligent and fairly sane extended tree? Why have I been placed in a land of cold and snow and green trees, ice and wind and blizzards, but exquisite summer beauty? I have gifts. So many gifts. I can write, sing, dance and move to music. I can draw, paint, sew, create. I teach. I lead. Others ask me for advice. I comfort those who hurt. Animals trust me. Yet I complain. My head hurts. I can't sing as well as I want. My soil is sandy and yields nothing. My piano sits silently and mocks me. All the drawings I could do are locked in their blank pages, my words still in my head and not in letters. I am afraid. Of not being worthy of my gifts, and not living up the their promise. I am afraid, also, of not living up to my own sense of self. What, if, after all, I really am, just very, very ordinary.