It’s Warren Buffett’s birthday today, and mine too. At 81, Warren is twenty years further down the road, saving banks and kicking ass. Sixty-one seems like a very fine age to me this morning, dawning in all its postcard glory here at Ocean Park, Maine. Cue the seagull! Thank you. I’m taking today off from my daily devotion to writing an e-book titled something like The Reading Edge: A Poet’s Practical Guide to the E-Book Revolution. Steven Pressfield is my guide, with his stirring call to simple disciplines and warrior-like devotion to the creative task. Resistance scurries under the nearest rock at the very mention of Pressfield’s name. If you want to enlist, buy a Kindle copy of Do the Work or The War of Art: Winning the Inner Creative Battle. But beware. Resistance is a wily foe. (See Great Reason to Procrastinate Work on Book Number 61: In addition to weekends, why don’t you take your birthday off? What could it hurt?) Happy August 30th, Warren!
As for the year, I bow to another 1950 baby, Mr. Stevie Wonder. I’ve got him playing on the Altec Lansing speaker next to my MacBook Pro. “There is a ribbon in the sky.” It’s easy to figure out how old you are when you’re born in 1950. I’ve always appreciated that, as if the calendar aligns each year for my convenience. When I’m feeling this grateful for my life, it’s not difficult to believe it might be so.