Ian McRae, our sheep shearer and friend,  amazes us repeatedly. Not only has he become a great friend to me and a pleasure to talk to, but it turns out he plays a beautiful guitar, but he’s also an aggressive chess player, as I’m learning.

In just a few weeks, he’s got some killer opening movies that defeated me the other night, although I put up a serious fight. We’re planning another round this Wednesday. I’m getting humbled.

The guitar playing knocked us out. A week or two ago, I found out he had ever played the guitar, and I nagged him to bring and play his guitar for us. He was as comfortable and into it as I’ve ever seen him.

Ian has changed so rapidly since I first met him four or five years ago – he was our farrier – and we began a dialogue that led to his coming out as a poet, but I know nothing about the guitar.

Maria and I saw, with our jaws hanging, that he was playing so beautifully and confidently. Ian is remarkable; he is out on his path in life and seems to know exactly where he is going.

He is no longer the angry and confused denier of his deep, almost boundless,  creativity. I can’t wait to see him every week; he has enriched my life, challenged my intellect, and brought me back to playing chess, something I always loved.

He is creative, complex, and gifted. He can do whatever he wishes to do. He is Ian. I saw him glowing brightly when he stood in our barn, shearing the sheep and arguing with me for years.

He is also still writing his poems and reading them to other poets, something I thought he might never do. We don’t argue with each other. We hugged on the way in and out. I never had a son who lived; I would have loved one like this.

I need to sharpen my game again. We’ll see about it on Wednesday.