Famous

 "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." ~poet Naomi Shihab Nye

In the fall of 1995, I packed my bags and headed for the Green Mountains of Vermont to pursue a second Masters Degree, this time in fine arts. I'd already been a published author and a national magazine columnist, but I'd convinced myself that I couldn't be, would never be, a real writer, unless and until I could write and publish fiction. Up until that point, I had one highly acclaimed book of informational non-fiction under my belt, another at the publisher, and I was a respected marketing columnist for a national trade magazine. 

So I applied and was accepted into this competitive graduate program, this two-year low residency immersion, with the intention....(wait for it)....of becoming famous. I can laugh now at the horror on my first semester advisor's face when I showed up for our first workshop armed with colored-coded notecards, highlighters, outlines, and books on craft (oh, so many books on craft!), ready to pen the Great American Novel.

I did graduate, on time in 1997, with an MFA in Creative Writing, but I got so much more than a framable piece of paper. I learned that the artist's way is not one of rigidity, gripping, holding on tight, following a blueprint or a mind map. Rather I learned that creativity, is about letting go, about trusting the process, about allowing spirit to move me. 

I still bring myself to the page every day, but I no longer wrestle, do battle with those demons  Instead, I have dialogues with the divine. I don't fret about page count, I don't subject myself to unrealistic and unnecessary deadlines. I simply show up. I stay. I allow. Because what really matters more than fame is kindness--to myself, to the process, and to my readers. 

Here's the poem, Famous by Naomi Shihab Nye, that I read at my 1997 graduation:

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.