As Famous as a Pulley

I think the mind is such a wonderful thing. How it wanders and ponders continually. I tend to think a lot about the mind and it's functions. I also think a lot about how each of us has our own ambitions. We are each driven by something different. Love, power, work, acceptance....how wonderful that is as well. As a derivative of these thoughts, I also tend to contemplate life. Each of us has a life mission, many to be exact, but we are each on the earth for a very important reason. I think that some of us are destined to be leaders, while the rest of us are destined for humbler things. I don't think I've quite figured myself out, but more then anything, all I want is to make sure that I'm doing whatever it is that I am meant to do...to be. I think about a particular poem quite often, one I will be sharing with you shortly. I have recited it often and it was always one that came quite easy to me. It has such meaning. Such power. And it brings such enlightenment. I can manifest, to the highest degree, that we all have a place in this life. How important it is to recognize the value of the little things. The little things that we are as people. How insignificant we are in the spectrum of so much. It's amazing really. We are small and futile, and that thought can sometimes be so discouraging. Yet, we all have such great purpose and importance. Remember the importance of a zipper. A key. A rope. A pulley. A buttonhole. It's phenomenal.

My mother can manifest of to the importance this poem has in both of our lives, but I felt that I should share it with you all today. Use that wonderful mind of yours to ponder on its importance and how it applies to you personally. And without further ado, here you go:

Famous, by Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to the 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.