Art can speak volumes. Its message is often more profound and penetrating than mere words alone. As I continue to press on in my fascination with fighting and films, I find myself grateful for those movies with a redeeming message I can hold on to.
First things first.
That’s what I asked my daughter Page to hand-letter in gold on the front of a new, black moleskin notebook.
Sometimes I wake up with crooked hands. It’s mostly my right hand. My fingers are puffy, sore and tender, and I can’t fully open my hand. Not so good for a right-handed writer.
The tiny squeak I heard was the bedroom door. As I look to see a little pair of eyes peeking through the opening, I hear, “I just checking on you, Mama.”