When my daughter gets a haircut, she comes home sad and angry because she doesn’t like it, that haircut, and then her mom washes it again and fixes it, and she looks at herself in the mirror and smiles, and then, in bed, under the warm covers, shortly after, happy, she tells me, Dad, I love my hair.
My friend Nicola, a few weeks ago, referenced this post of mine and wrote about Bitonto, the town where he lives. I admire and almost envy the way he described it. You can clearly tell that, somehow, it’s his roots and that those roots engage him.
There are people who throw themselves, and there are people who stay on the sidelines to watch. Who is at greatest risk?