The Coffee Maven and the Thrift Store Secret Keeper
The Poet in Her own Right
Me...the Morning Writer
I've noticed from scrolling through some of my old photographs that hands--particularly those of my friends--continue to turn up as a recurring motif in my work. These are the hands that have held babies, books, pens, brushes, and baubles. These hands that have hugged necks, cleaned scraped-up knees, wiped away tears (both their own and everyone else's), braided tangly hair, picked blackberries in the brambles, and held out offerings of margaritas, coffee, and, yes, the hands themselves as a comfort, a salve to every day misgivings. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world? Indeed.