I’m leafing through the pages of my sketchbook looking for a blank sheet. There are mostly hastily penned doodles for blog posts. But here and there and there again, there are drawings made with a different scrawl.
There’s a picture of a guitar, the heavy lines suggesting an energetic hand behind the pencil. Below the guitar is scratched the name of the artist whose painting inspired the sketch. The letters are rough and just slightly clumsy. On the next pages are renderings of places and even faces I recognize. And, throughout the strong, impulsively laid lead lines, I see my six-year-old son’s spirit.
His art is like him – uninhibited and full of adventure. And, like his physical presence, his etchings are talismans of joy. They are hope in an often hopeless world. They are a promise of his future, and the affirmation is a priceless powerful drug.
There is little daylight between his youth and his joy right now, but I know that rarely does that carefree exuberance survive adolescence or maturity. While it thrives, however, I will nurture it. The day will come when the lines will become studied and serious. For now, I’ve pressed these souvenirs back into my sketchbook, saving his spring like a dried daisy to be rediscovered on a colder day when it’s needed most.