What makes me who I am?

What makes you who you are?

I think that above all,
I am a being . . .
it’s very confusing to add in my experiences,
my likes and dislikes,
my attractions and distractions . . .
it seems that they are beads and feathers I’ve gathered along the way.
I don’t know if they will remain completely intact when I die,
but in some way they have affected my path and my essence,
for a lack of a better word . . .
but in the end
I am pure Life,
and I’m not sure what that looks like.
Right now,
I cling to what I love . . .
the flowers and trees and rocks,
and people and animals and birds . . .
the crystals hanging in my windows,
the stones that line my garden,
my joys, my sorrows,
my learnings,
my love of music and art
and the sensuality of my body . . .
tastes, smells,
the dappled sunshine through leaves in summer,
the bees buzzing on my echinacaea,
the rain falling on my face
the ocean kissing my toes . . .
all of these I don’t want to lose,
and so I am at a loss for explanation.

I know that my ego
would like to say that I am the person people see in the world,
but I am not my ego,
so what is left . . .
Being?
Something to think about . . .