In the Garden of My Gifts: What I Am Good At”

“In the Garden of My Gifts: What I Am Good At”

What am I good at? The question appears as a whisper in the corridors of silence when the din of the world fades away. It knocks not on the doors of pride, but gently tugs at the curtain of introspection, asking me not to measure, but to recognise. What am I truly good at?

The world today measures skill in speed and precision—certificates, achievements, likes and accolades, blinking like neon signs in the souk of self-worth. But I speak here not of professional proficiencies or glittering trophies gathering dust, but of those innate whispers of the soul—those things I do, not to prove, but to be.

The Craft of Words

I am good at weaving words—not for applause, but to breathe life into feelings unspoken. Words, to me, are not just syllables tied in grammar’s garb; they are dew on morning leaves, fireflies in the night forest, sails on the ocean of thought. When I write, I do not merely ink paper—I excavate emotion, time-travel through memory, and polish truths buried beneath convention. Perhaps I am not a laureate, but in the quietude of my room, when ink meets thought, I feel I belong.

The Art of Listening

I am good at listening—not just hearing, but listening. Not merely to voices, but to silences between sentences, to pauses filled with pain, and laughter layered with longing. I have learnt to listen to what the eyes say, to what the footsteps confess, and what the breeze sometimes murmurs to the leaves. In a world that screams to be heard, I offer the gift of a still ear, a patient heart.

Living with Curiosity

I am good at wondering—about stars and souls, atoms and afterlives, myths and morals. The ‘why’ and ‘what if’ have never left my side. I walk with curiosity as one walks with an old friend, strolling through the garden of philosophy, picking petals of paradox, and humming hymns of ancient wisdom. I do not seek to solve every mystery, but to marvel at their existence.

Grace in Solitude

I am good at being alone—not lonely, but alone, like a mountain peak untouched, or a book unopened yet full of stories. In solitude, I find companionship with myself. I talk to my past selves and listen to the future knocking. It is in this sacred solitude that I stitch together the fragments of my being into a cohesive self—not perfect, but whole.

Resilience Woven in Silence

I am good at standing again. I have known the floor well—its cold, unyielding reality—and yet, each time, I have risen. Quietly, without banners or bugles, I have begun anew, like dawn after a ruthless storm. My resilience is not a battle cry; it is a whispered prayer in the temple of time.

A Soulful Steward of the Ordinary

I am good at observing the mundane and unveiling the miraculous. A drop of rain is to me not just water—it is a messenger from the sky. A crack in the pavement might hold the poetry of persistence. A child’s question might echo the riddles of sages. I find meaning in moments others may overlook.

So, what am I good at?

Perhaps, I am good at being. Being present in a world that runs. Being aware in a time of numbness. Being grateful when despair tries to settle. I may not climb Everest or win gold, but I ascend the invisible mountains of the mind, and treasure the unseen gems of the heart.

In the garden of my gifts, I am both the gardener and the bloom. I cultivate quietly, but what grows there is real, rooted, and radiant.