I got a seemingly friendly message from a long-time blog reader who professed to like my writing and work. She asked me if I would consider her idea of helping food pantries in other places and asking other people to do the same.

It was a perfectly reasonable request, something I’ve repeatedly done on my blog. I signed up with the pantry in the first place to help raise awareness of the hunger crisis growing across much of America.

I also wanted to give people who aren’t near a food pantry a chance to help and understand hunger. Many people have thanked me for the opportunity.

It seemed like a nice note, but there was that edge inside, one I can almost smell by now, a “but,” an agenda of one kind or another, a needle waiting to prick.

She was writing me, she said, at the risk of “arousing your wrath.” This startled me. Why, I thought, would a request like that – something I’d done in fact – arouse my wrath? I’m proud of the pantry work; it means a lot. It gives real meaning to my life.

Was I so awful and cruel? There was a message in there, conscious or not.

So I messaged her back to say I was puzzled that such an innocent idea would encounter my wrath—wrath that is known to exist, for sure, when I feel insulted, invaded, belittled,  or lied to. And often, when I’m wrong.

She wrote back, quoting me from my response to a previous email years ago. “What Do You Want Of Me?” This caught my attention.

What seemed to her as wrath appeared to me as a perfectly reasonable and honest question. I did not remember her name or e-mail, nor did she add the question or explain what she had asked that sparked my “wrath.” I am easily annoyed. But “wrath?”

I receive hundreds of messages weekly, and I can’t memorize or recall them, especially those from years ago.

I’m not interested in arguing with her or having a he-said-she-said exchange. I know I have been harsh with people, many of whom did not deserve it, and I have both explained and apologized for it.

She could be one of them, sure.

But to be honest, I’m done with that. As Georgia O’Keeffe put it, I’ve done the work on myself and pour praise and criticism down the sink.  I’m the one who decides who I am.

And I do not apologize for things said years ago that I don’t remember. I no longer apologize for anything short of running over a deer or a squirrel.

I was a minor celebrity for some years—a best-selling author with a movie made about one of my books—and a lot of people did contact me, and it was necessary, even essential, to ask them what they wanted of me.

It was often quite nice.

It was more often something I could not provide—a private visit to the farm, help getting published, movie scripts to comment on, strangers showing up uninvited, marriage offers on the Internet, stalkers in the pasture, a hope of friendship.

It left a bunch of scars.

So I learned to ask what was wanted of me, and usually, the senders melted away. Over time, the questions stopped; I rarely get them now. And I never respond to them.

What I have gotten is a hard look at myself (with a therapist’s help) and an understanding of the things about me I didn’t like and needed to change. I’m working on those things now and will be for the rest of my life.

I chose a spiritual path for this work. Spiritual identity means we are not what we do or what people think or say about us; we are not about what we have. We are the sons, daughters, and teachers of whatever kind of God or feelings we worship.

Public people, however insignificant, are called up to define themselves or perish in waves of others’ beliefs, opinions, and advice. Just look at what politicians go through.

The only person who can represent me now is me, and more and more, Maria.

If I stopped for a second to be the person other people want me to be, I would never get lost in being who I am. I would not be alive writing this.

I have no idea what the woman who messaged me was trying to do or respond to or whether I reacted angrily. That did happen more than once.

It felt like a wound unhealed. She has to do that healing for herself.

I wish I could say I was sorry for my wrath, but I won’t. It’s my responsibility but not my fault.  I am human, not a marble statue or a hungry politician. My obligation is to be better, not angrier.

The answer for me is not to use anger or wrath anymore. That’s been working out, and I don’t miss it a bit.

Aristotle said knowing oneself is the beginning of all wisdom. I don’t need anyone else to tell me what is wrong with me or right with me; those are snowflakes blowing off my cap. I got there first.

I try to avoid going back in time and dwelling on my mistakes. We are all human beings; we all make mistakes; some, like mine, are out in the open for others to see and peck at, like crows over dead roadkill.

I had many problems at different times and put them out in the open for vultures to feed on. I gave and give a lot of people some pleasure.  Wrath can taste good.

What do people owe me? Nothing. I am grateful for their attention, donations, reading of my blog, appreciation of my photos, which I love so much, and sharing my life with Maria.

I see my blog as a groundbreaking virtual memoir, one of the first. It’s nothing more or less than sharing life, for better or worse.

What do people want from me?

I hope it’s this. Honesty, pictures of life, stories of life, reflections on nature and animals, some color and light, encouragement and interest,  and the occasional idea worth considering. Oh yes, sometimes a laugh.

That’s all there is, and thanks for coming along.

No strings attached on either end.