Ink and watercolor on Moleskine Japanese album sketchbook, 5 1/2 x 109in

We come from a kind of fire, unknowing. And then a tree, by some kind of miracle, offers us momentary shade.

There’s an old barn at the end of a country road in Michigan where my wife grew up. Early on she developed an affinity for running, movement. I’ve drawn the barn there at the end of that country road more than once. Fast and slow at the same time.

And then a cloud. And then the Missouri River at day’s end. And then an oil refinery in the night, a city of lights in the darkness.

I’ve tried my best to avoid being hustled by chess players in Union Square Park in New York City in the middle of the afternoon. So have the pigeons and the bronze statue of George Washington standing tall there, offering his blessing to all of us down below doing the best that we can.

Once I regularly wore two masks and an imitation expensive fedora. I’ve since lost the hat and one of the masks.

I’ve worked out lots of things in sketchbooks while riding in the backseats of hired cars.

Or standing in lines.

And people in airports often overvalue their importance, while riders on New York City subways often do the opposite.

But in spite of it all, paper to-go coffee cups are wonderful subjects to draw.

“Keep your eyes peeled!” I’m often reminding myself. “It’s happening all around you, though sometimes it’s only a whisper.”

Nobody knows where the person sitting across from you on this tedious train ride is going, or where they’ve been. And neither do you.

Perhaps we’re all destined to do as Jonah did and take the less-than-conventional path home, through the fire, into the great wide open.