The Art of Paying Attention
In the still moments as I recover from a long sinus infection, I've had time to reflect on the things that inspire me as an artist—though really, they're the same moments that inspire me as a person.
Light catches my attention first.
The evening sun pierces through my front door, illuminating my peace lily. I notice the sharp angle where the light ends and the shadow begins. It spills into the hallway, highlighting the traces of my daughter's day: toys scattered across the floor, little reminders that creativity often leaves a mess behind.
I find myself studying the intricate weave of a blanket draped across my lap. The darkness of clouds rolling in as we've been inundated with rain lately. The steady sound of it falling outside. Even now, my cat rests her left paw on my lap as she balances on the arm of the recliner, nudging her head against my arm as if to remind me she's here.
Getting sick forces you to slow down. It asks you to observe before acting, to sit quietly with your surroundings instead of rushing to the next thing.
Ironically, in those quiet moments I sometimes reach for my phone and begin mindlessly scrolling, only to realize that very little of what I'm seeing is actually interesting. What feels far more compelling are the paintings waiting in my studio for me to return to them.
Our lives can feel loud and busy, but I wonder if that's always true—or if perception amplifies the noise. Social media floods us with endless content, each post competing for a fraction of our attention, yet so much of it leaves me feeling empty. We're all trying to be seen, but I often ask myself: seen for what? The version of ourselves we hope others perceive? Why does that matter so much?
Lately, I've been trying to care less about what strangers might think of me and more about how I spend the limited time I have. What actually brings me joy? What helps me feel connected?
Maybe some of these thoughts were stirred by watching Toy Story this weekend. The story touched on children's relationship with technology in a way that stayed with me. As a parent, I'm beginning to navigate those questions with my own daughter—how to keep her expressive, imaginative, and connected without letting screens crowd out the world around her.
Because when I look down the hallway and watch the light slowly shift and fade as the sun sets, I realize something else.
One day I'll wish those toys were still scattered across the floor. I'll wish for the evidence of her play, her curiosity, and the creative chaos she leaves behind. Those ordinary moments that seem so easy to overlook today will become the memories I long to revisit.
Maybe that's what paying attention really is: recognizing that the smallest details are often the ones we'll miss the most.
