Ford picks a pen and sits quietly at the table beside me. It’s so warm and sunny on our backs. I look over to see what he’s working on, and no surprise, it’s another mandala. It’s hard not to smile and approve him while he’s at work, but I do it anyway. I love his current obsession. As he draws upon a piece of previously-used typing paper, I reach from my corner of the table and pass him a small pocket-sized moleskine. “Here,” I nudge him. “You need a sketchbook for those.” And he has one of those grins that stretches from ear to ear, a really infectious smile, which rings melodious to “Thanks, Mama!”
Later, I catch him at the kitchen table before lunch, doodling away again
And I think to myself, this is so perfect and right, this meticulous new phase of his. I love the geometry, I love the patience, and the infatuation with such a universal, timeless thing.
But he’s also into school mode, which means he’ used to busywork already. I caught him copying some fleurydoodles I’d been scribbling in the studio, after he’d sat down beside me later.
He then challenged me to a duel. “Ok, you have to copy whatever I do, allright?”
Ok.
Which proved difficult.
I had to try about 4 times to replicate his design correctly. Instructing me to start over, I’d have to repeat the whole, “First, morning glories, then connect them, then three leaf stalks, then a stalk of wheat,” etc. Four times! I’d get three steps or so into each drawing and become completely self-absorbed, adding frilly tendrils and black-eyed susan vines…I think this copy was most accurate.
Still, he got completely frustrated with me and wound up storming off into the other room before I finished. He’s not a natural teacher, these days, and it has me wondering who he might be emulating.
That’s the thing about school; I can’t be a fly on the wall every day, so I’m left wondering who might be misdirecting him in my absence. Or maybe he’s just the perfectionist I see, slowly coming into focus.
One thing is certain: his obsession is rubbing off on me….
