Turn

I read a fair bit of my books on line, but there is nothing like turning the page of a new book. The smell of the binding and ink is reassuring and comforting. I received a new book in the mail from Budapest, Hungary yesterday. A birthday gift from my son-in-law and daughter. It was handmade by an artisan to record my new favorite passion,

 drawing.

   A beautiful sketch book requires some serious compositions. It may be a bit intimidating to put my lines and shapes in such a book. There is however a gracious invitation to record what I love and see with my fledgling artist eyes. Much like playing a Minuet or Boureé on a modern piano.

The artisan's business card takes me back to times when everything was handmade and books were precious. Turning a page was savored and saved until the requirements of daily work were accomplished.

I do so love the binding in red leather. The tactile joy of holding the spine is luxurious. 

So, page one is waiting. I have turned the page. Pencil or brush? Should hands or hearts be the first subject?

I write on Fridays with a large group who inspire me. Only five minutes and without much thought to perfection. I write, prompted by one word that sends my thoughts to the keyboard and hopefully make sense.