Famous

My host in Bangkok just wrote to me and said the Board at the school where I did a five-day in-service with both kids and teachers was impressed with how famous I was. Ha! Taylor Swift cuts her nails and 10 million fans applaud. I write a piece from the depths of my soul to post on my Blog or Facebook and if I’m lucky, get 100 responses. 

 

But I’m not complaining. As I often say, I’m just famous enough to get more work and the opportunity to do what I love— helping make kids and teachers just an inch or two happier. I thought of a beautiful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye and how eloquently she names the kind of fame I care about it. 

 

FAMOUS

The river is famous to the fish.

 

The loud voice is famous to silence,   

which knew it would inherit the earth   

before anybody said so.   

 

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds   

watching him from the birdhouse.   

 

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.   

 

The idea you carry close to your bosom   

is famous to your bosom.   

 

The boot is famous to the earth,   

more famous than the dress shoe,   

which is famous only to floors.

 

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it   

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.   

 

I want to be famous to shuffling men   

who smile while crossing streets,   

sticky children in grocery lines,   

famous as the one who smiled back.

 

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,   

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,   

but because it never forgot what it could do.