I sort of feel like the donkey in the poem below. The donkey wasn't special, didn't know he was going to play such a significant role in the universe. He was just small, dark, and obedient, moving forward, hoof step by hoof step.
I think the world would be a much better place if there were more donkeys in the world, just doing their jobs, not looking for recognition or glory.
A lot of people think that Saint Marty is a jackass.
The Poet Thinks about the Donkey
by: Mary Oliver
On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.
How horses, turned out into the meadow,
leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
clatter away, splashed with sunlight!
But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.
Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.
I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.
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