Looking back, I cannot but be dumbfounded by my path through life. Early on, it appeared I would be a painter. Then it seemed that I would be an architect. And then a planner of everything under the sun. Next it appeared that I would be an economist. To be followed by a painter once again, or perhaps an artist pure and simple. And then it seemed I would be a thinker. In the end, I turned into a yogi of sorts. Why of sorts? Because it appears I cannot be anything else but Ranko Bon. No matter how defined, professions are not for me. Neither are occupations or vocations or callings or careers. Which brings me to my mother, who was deeply convinced that I was quite special, but who could not make up her mind what it was in which I was so special. As far as she was concerned, anything would do. But she never considered the possibility that I would eventually get confused about her lofty expectations. Mightily confused, too. So confused, in fact, that the conundrum is still with me in my late sixties. And how. At any rate, now I have the solution to the old conundrum: I am special at being Ranko Bon. Even more, I am a genius at it. What is more, I am unassailable in my unparalleled achievement. I am the one and only Ranko Bon, that is. Oh, how my mother would giggle if she read this tongue-in-cheek confession of mine! She would not be able to stop giggling, either. “Gosh,” she would stutter between giggles, “I’m so sorry…”