Wordless Stories of our Lives

—Mama, can you play with me?

—Not just yet. Mama’s drawing you.

She’s in the sandbox about five feet away. I’m sitting on our favourite bench at the cafe on Ward’s Island.

I can never get her huge brown eyes right. They look cartoon-like when I try to capture them. I wish I could remember who gave me this tip: to draw someone’s eyes, look at them upside down. It is helping.

I am now doodling on her foot as she eats ice cream, giggling. It’s ticklish. Soon she is drawing a collection of flowers on my foot and I am (briefly) daydreaming about a possible tattoo.

Drawing has become a steady part of my regimen.

When anxiety is banging on my door or has somehow already snuck through an open window, drawing is an important tool for me. I draw to relax, to slow down my brain, to blissfully process a busy day. My anxiety doesn’t seem to like the focus and calm that it demands. When I take the time to draw the intricate veins of a leaf there isn’t much room for spinning dark thoughts. 

If my brain is stuck on a trigger, I attempt something tricky—laundry hanging on the drying rack. It’s a distracting puzzle to figure out all the angles and perspectives.

When I can’t get anything done (and anxiety keeps insisting that everything should get done), a drawing serves as the physical evidence of some accomplishment. Look, I existed today. Something got done.

Collecting and looking through past drawings comfort me, those I’ve done or those done by others close to me. The lines—the lineage—woven through my mother’s and daughter’s work is wondrous.