I had a strong friendship with a young Amish man who often came to the farmhouse and asked me for bus tickets and online shopping. We clicked, talked and laughed, and enjoyed the time together.

When we finished ordering his bus tickets, I said wanted to take a photo of his hose parked by the pasture and asked his permission.

He shook his head and said I shouldn’t; he believed photography was evil, as he had been taught.

I had a sharp reaction to that.

First, I told him I was uncomfortable being too close to a friend who thought me evil for taking pictures of a horse.

Secondly, he was on my property, coming to ask me a favor, and I bristled at the idea of being told what I could photograph on my property. I never take anyone’s picture without permission, and many people say no, which I always respect.

But what I do on the farm is different, at least to me.

I am a photographer and a writer, and it is no simple matter for me to be friends with someone who thinks both are evil. In my mind, that meant I could never be me if he were around.

I respected his feelings about picture taking and had never and would never take his picture.

But I felt what I do on my farm a few yards from the door was up to me. He was asking me to give up my identity.

The Amish don’t argue with the people they call the “English.” People like me.

We agreed to disagree, and I didn’t take a photo of his horse. But the friendship weakened and faded quite a bit, although we still occasionally see each other and talk.

No hard feelings. (Maybe a few.)

I told this story today to a friend with a deep philosophical bent. She listened and said she had a question: “Are you what you do? Is that your entire identity?”

It was a fascinating question that surprised me and threw me into a spin all day. It wasn’t easy to answer.

What is my identity? I would say I am a writer and photographer, and blogger. That is what I do. But is it also who I am? Sometimes, for sure. Sometimes not.

But it is not, of course, all that I am. I am also a lover, a husband, a father, a friend, a volunteer, and a supporter of refugees; I often write about dogs, embrace spirituality, love Maria, the animals here, and my life at the farm.

I write about the good deeds I try to do every day of my life. I love my blog with a passion. I believe I am a good neighbor.

I am not only one thing; I am many things.

Is who I am only what I do? I guess the answer is no.

I think my friend asked if it was possible for me to put aside my identity as a writer and photographer to accommodate and respect the wishes and values of a good person and a good friend.

I’ve worked this out with my friend Moise. I don’t take his photo, but he has never told me that I can’t or told me what pictures I can and can’t take.

He knows that would end our friendship. I do know how he feels and respect it. He has never suggested to me that photography or writing is evil.

But we also both understand that this dramatically restricts our friendship. I can’t agree to be me around him.

In the case of my young friend, we couldn’t find an accessible place.

I’ve worked so hard to discover and accept my identity and work hard at being a writer, blogger, and photographer. I love all of those things.

All my life (I am Dyslexic), people have labeled me stupid and tried to tell me what to do. I’ve always dug in. My identity is precious to me.

But as I thought about it, I wondered if I was rigid and inflexible. Perhaps time to believe more softly. I asked if I couldn’t compromise my identity rather than draw iron fences around it.

This is all a trigger for me, one I need to get past. I seem to never run out of these cement blocks to jump over.

That struggle for identity is, in some ways,  at my core. But so is Maria, my daughter: the farm, the refugees, and the Mansion residents. So are my friends.

I am not only one thing; I don’t wish only to be one thing.

I drove up the road to see my young  Amish friend; he was having dinner at his house.

He came out to talk to me.

Come back to visit me, I said.

I won’t take a photo of your horse, I said. You can come any time.

I did say this: “I would ask that you understand the importance of my being a writer and a photographer and never again tell me you think my work is evil. It’s okay to believe it, don’t label me that way, certainly not in my driveway.”

He smiled, nodded, and offered his hand. I took it.

He’ll make a good friend. I hope to do the same.