Of leaping men and sleeping men

Who is harder to draw?

This evening I returned to my studies of cartoon people leaping through space. When I started my session, I had this idea I would draw some heroic figure in action and swap out a spear for a giant paintbrush. In lieu of a shiny helmet and billowing cape I was going to draw my dad’s distinctive hat and backpack, maybe even a paint pallette instead of a shield (I may still do all that, though not tonight).

As I drew the sample over and over, I couldn’t help but think that even in his much younger, spryer days, it was highly unlikely that Dad would have ever bounded into the air quite like this.

I kept going, though, determined to get the leap more or less correct. But as I drew, I found myself thinking about a pose that might sum up one of the tougher stretches of the Camino (see yesterday’s newsletter for some additional context). Multiple days into our walk, Dad had slowed down from a snail’s pace to… whatever is a tenth the speed of a snail’s pace. He stopped for frequent rests (every ten feet or so) and at some point, I remember he lay back in the grass at the side of the path with a spectacular sigh of deep despair. This is the image that came to mind as I was drawing the jumping people.

It’s particularly scribbly because I was fighting with myself.

“You’re supposed to be drawing jumping superheroes.”

“But I’m thinking about Dad and that day he lay down at the side of the path and Dani and I wondered if he’d ever get up again.”

“But the instructions say, Draw the jumping people.”

“Fine. I’ll be quick. But this is what’s in my head.”

Then, of course, I had to go searching through thousands of pictures on my phone to see if I had snapped a photo of this particular moment at the side of the Camino somewhere near Portomarin.

So that was the end of the jumping people drawings. As I flipped through photo after photo (he was moving soooooooooo slowly, both Dani and I had time to take a LOT of photos) what struck me was two things. First, that trip really was hard. He looks exhausted and in many shots (and even more painful-to-watch video clips) is obviously struggling. But even more striking was each time he had a moment to catch his breath, take a break, stop at a cafè-bar for a fresh-squeezed orange juice his face lit up with a huge grin.

Then he’d say something like, “This is bloody marvelous, isn’t it?” and Dani and I would confer later, asking each other if he was just saying that to keep us happy.

In those photos, judging by the number of big smiles and deep laugh lines, the thumbs up and, yes, drawings he did along the way, I think he was genuinely happy to be there on that crazy trip with us.

After our eventual return, he and I spoke often and there was rarely a conversation that didn’t refer back to how fabulous it had been to go on that Camino. “Oh yes, there were some times when it was hard - but then I’d rest and I’d feel fine.”

I do wonder if his definition of ‘feeling fine’ was a bit different to mine. At that point, the fact he could open his eyes, remember his name and what country he was trying to walk across was a triumph.

His determination to keep going, to keep making art, to walk as far as the next patch of shade so he could lie down again was so inspiring - is still an inspiration to me. He truly lived by the words carpe diem.

And thinking of that phrase, made me think of another photo and sent me back to my phone.

Yes! A leaping person! Me, in fact - on my honeymoon way the heck back in … well, a very long time ago. I no longer leap like this, am no longer in the same marriage, no longer live on the coast… but what hasn’t changed (and what I proudly share with my father) is a passion for life that buoys me up even when things get grim.

If I am able to sustain that enthusiasm for getting up every morning for as long as he did, I will be satisfied knowing that when my time comes to shuffle off this mortal coil, I will have left very little on the table.

See you tomorrow!