Here I am.

Noticing marks I've made in my sketchbook.

The past few months have been a whirlwind of new baby life; oftentimes boring, hilarious, difficult, soul-warming, draining and magical.

Creatively, I have felt myself ebb away and have often said out loud ‘who am I anymore?’. I repeat the narrative of having no time and no energy and feeling like spending time creating is even more indulgent, wasteful, pointless.

our bodies

But, then I look at a sketchpad I keep on the desk in the living room. It lays there quietly, not alone. There is a brush pen next to it. On opening it, I realise that on mornings where Robin has napped well that I have had time; I have picked up this pen. The ‘me’ who doesn’t have time or energy seems to have found time or energy without ‘me’ realising - here she is.

looking at you

I believe I feel the need to create projects, work with meaning, with colour, texture; final pieces that prove myself worthy of forming a creative self.

tiny feet

But, I don’t. I was here all along, snatching existing in pockets of time - making marks.