My daughter loves to draw. She reaches for pen and paper before she eats her breakfast; her notebook sleeps beside her bed. She fills every available moment with sketching and colouring and writing. It is fascinating to observe her imagination unfurling onto the page. I think about how much I like to draw; how I have always filled notebooks with words and doodles, and about how rarely I do so now. I wonder at what point we stop grabbing those little moments and making them into something special. There is so much talk about children and screen-time, and yet so many of us turn our attention towards a screen every spare second that we can, filling up our precious time with nonsense. While my daughter draws at the kitchen worktop, I do not reach for my phone but scrawl down on a crumpled sheet of paper these sentences:
"I keep wondering how much happier we'd all be if we spent those in-between times drawing or writing on scraps of paper, instead of staring into screens and searching for answers or meaning in the ephemera of other people's lives. Those scraps could be the beginning: winged seedpods of the imagination, swirling into the blue. How we could soar on the hope that some might grow big."
Perhaps I do have time to make art; to write or sketch. It's just that it's shattered time. I have to find the pieces; to use them wisely and imaginatively. To bring together those shards to create something cohesive.