I used to play by the train tracks when I was small and make rubbings on tracing paper of wood, pennies, and leaves. Now when I sketch, I still take the time to delight in the textures of things. They are the rubbings of childhood, traced sensations of the world around me. It is like kneading bread, the warm, living dough in our working hands. We touch on the surface of things and let them in with the rhythms of the pen and pencil on the skin of trees. Their skin becomes our skin. It is no wonder that so many of the young take so much joy in the inking of skin. We let the world in line by line, shade by shade, in the stories of our impressions. It becomes a part of us. We are willing to become the medium on which the living universe paints. We are willing to be vulnerable. As with any process, the sketching itself is more important than the material drawing that remains. It’s the participation in living that draws me, the absolute rapture that comes out of one’s consciousness during seeing and listening to something as if it were being born.