We had a good friend over for dinner tonight. Ian McRae, our friend, sheep shearer, and poet stopped by to read some of his new poems at a nearby poetry group.

Some of you know the story of Ian.

He’s a young poet who didn’t believe he could write poetry good enough to share. We fought about that for a couple of years, but Ian doesn’t wonder about that anymore. He’s doing it, and he’s sharing it.

I told him that first night that hardly anyone makes a living being a poet, but he has a day job he likes and has both feet on the ground.

If he didn’t heed the call, I said, he might regret it for the rest of his life. I don’t think he believed me then or dared to believe me. But he kept returning for more reinforcement, and he thinks it now.

We can be good friends. He’s landed.

And he is still our sheep shearer.

Ian is writing poems, meeting young and older poets, listening to reads,  soaking up Allan Ginsburgh’s lyrics (I read him a Mary Oliver poem tonight and gave him two of her books), and other poets.

He lives in the poor town of Granville, N.Y., and works in the daytime with slate.

He went to the famous Cafe Lena in Saratoga Springs (Bob Dylan sang there) the other night and read his latest poems – he got applause and a whistle. This meant a lot. His eyes lit up when he talked about the whistle. I know that look. He’s got the bug.

He was more relaxed with us than I’ve ever seen. More than 17 poets were there, and 40 people listened.

That was the biggest crowd by far for Ian, and he stood up and read his work. For the first time, he said, his voice was not shaking.

I forgot that I had invited him to dinner tonight (I thought it was Friday, still getting over m food poisoning), and when he came walking in the door in his wool hat, I didn’t recognize him at first.

When I saw who he was, I scrambled and e-mailed the Shift wood-fired pizza tried and ordered some pizza and salads. Ian and I drove down to pick it up – we had time before his reading.

Ian came with me to pick up the pizza, and we talked in the car while waiting. I felt I had known this person for years. We were kindred spirits, not mentors to students.

I noticed right away that Ian was different. We talked easily and comfortably like two old friends, which I guess we are now.

Ian and I and Maria have broken through together. He is no longer a nervous kid eager for support and shy around us but a young poet increasingly part of the community of poets and at ease with himself.

It was great talking with him. When Ian comes, he takes his shoes right off, a country tradition for kids who grew up on farms and picked up shit on their shoes.

Ian gets nervous when he reads, but I no longer hear his often painful self-doubt.

He is a brave and gifted person taking the plunge, answering his calling, and living his life. His growth and ease have become more and more apparent since we had our first talk several years ago about following his heart and bliss and pursuing his poetry.

Maria and I both had the same feeling. This, in a way, is what we live for and care about. It’s a fantastic thing to me to see the creative spark light up.

It was a lovely dinner, Ian was more comfortable than I saw him, and I think the reason was that he was pursuing his passion and listening to the voices inside of him. We talked so quickly at dinner we lost track of time; he was almost late for his reading.

I was humbled. Encouragement is a powerful gift; it can work miracles.

It was nice to have a young person at the dinner table; it was great to see Ian launching what I know will be a satisfying, challenging, and very creative experience for him. He did it. I never had any doubts. He had enough for both of us.

Ian’s got some new poems he’s going to mail to me. I love this kid and his courage and talent, and I am proud to know him and call him a friend.

I hope to see him often. He’s the real deal. This was a dinner to remember. I will always be rooting for him.