While my wife was still unconscious from the anesthetic, I pulled out my sketchbook and drew her in her hospital bed.

I noticed every detail of her face, her lips, the way her nose curved, and a twist of her hair over her ear. My anxiety over her recovery washed away in a wave of love for this beautiful woman lying so still.

​

A month later.

The CEO was monopolizing the call, faceless. Resentful and bored, I inched open my sketchbook and began to draw the speaker box on the conference table while his voice droned on. Then I drew the others hunkered around the table, their eyes closed or locked onto scrolling phones.

As my pen moved, my mind started to unclench. I saw how withdrawn and bewildered my colleagues had become. I started to understand the pain and fear behind the CEO’s words. I began to empathize with his position. I saw him as a decent person in a tight place. New ideas started to surface. Solutions to his issues. New directions that would change everything.

​

The following summer.

It was Day 7 of the package trip to Paris. We’d done the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe. My companions had plastic bags brimming with postcards and cheap souvenirs. My sketchbook was overflowing, too, with drawings of an elegant Art Nouveau subway entrance, of the wrinkled face of a nun muttering her prayers, a fragrant, flaky croissant, and a used bookstand on the banks of the Loire.

I had made Paris mine.
​

People treat drawing like it's this distant dream - something they'll do when they retire, take that class, or finally "have time." But that's missing the whole point.

Drawing isn't something you pencil into your future - it's the ink you use to write your present.

It's having your sketchbook as your constant companion, letting it collect the stuff of your days - grocery lists next to gesture drawings, meeting notes bleeding into coffee shop sketches.

Drawing forces you to really look at everything in front of you. To slow down and let your eyes observe carefully and guide your fingers across the page. It inscribes awareness and memory deep into your brain. A quick snapshot with your phone can’t compare.

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It doesn’t matter if you say you can’t “draw a straight line.” If you have no “talent.” Or “no time.” It doesn’t matter what other people think. It doesn’t even matter if the drawings suck.

The drawings themselves are just the byproduct of the experience of being present in your life. Over time, sure, you will like your drawings better, but more importantly, you will fall in love with the world.

Drawing is about having a conversation with yourself about your life as it's happening. It's about saying, "This moment, right here - with the rain finally stopping and the sun breaking through, with the stranger's interesting shoes across the aisle, with the bird on the wire - this is worth noticing. This is worth remembering. This is worth drawing."

And maybe that's the real magic of it all - not that we're creating great art, but that we're creating greater awareness. We're becoming people who notice things, who are present in our own lives, who find the extraordinary in the ordinary. We're not just passing time; we're marking it, holding it, celebrating it, living it - one small drawing at a time.

​

Today is the eighth anniversary of my wife’s operation. I just took my old sketchbook off the shelf and flipped through the pages again. The drawings are actually pretty awful. They don’t look much like my wife.

But when I look at those drawings now, I don’t see the wonky lines and crappy proportions. Those quavering lines instantly transport me right back to that moment, through her recovery and return to health, reminding me once again of how grateful I am to have her in my life.

Drawing reminds me of that.

Your pal,

Danny