I drove for a couple of hours today and thought about several things, namely music and traffic and television shows. I also thought a bit about what it means to be famous.
There’s a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye that reflects a thought I’ve had when it comes to being “well-known”:
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.
I mean, what is fame but a heightened sense of purpose? Roads and tunnels are famous to the vehicles and tires that hum along their paths. Fingers are famous to piano keys. And sometimes I wonder if grief is famous to my heart despite its confusing presence—my heart knows it as well as it knows laughter and happiness.