Yesterday I began reading an article about Being a Poet that fascinated me, and I thought my friend Daron, who writes poetry and teaches meditation . . .

alert: a tufted titmouse in the ivy on the nearest oak. A chickadee. Another.

I thought he'd like the article. This morning, quickly checking e-mail before diving happily into that talk or another summarizing what has happened since 1945 in American poetry, which is like what happened the moment you were hit by a truck - I was happier to realize that talking to him about this, our lives as poets, is part of my work. My vow has given me freedom to do what I want to do. Why wasn't I doing that?

I don't know. It is inexplicably karmic, but one thing I note is that it has to do with my recent interest in dropping my self-description as "a decent person" and living like a college student. The house looks like a college student took it over. A nice, responsible grad student, no pizza boxes on the living room floor, nothing smells, but clutter everywhere. Who cares?

Thank you both LuLu and hadv for yesterday's comments. LuLu comments that true practice begins when it gets hard - now do you hold the pose? This is absolutely true, and marks the difference in the arts between the amateur and the professional. The pro works at it when it is temporarily not fun. Yet it must remain an advanced form of play.