I look at my son and his relationship to technology, and I think

In the tender and reflective words of Jeff Lemire, artist and storyteller of the modern age, there glimmers a truth that touches every parent and every child of this new century: “I look at my son and his relationship to technology, and I think back to when I was six and how wildly different the world is in that regard. I see him using an iPhone and all this stuff, and then I think back to when I was six. We didn't even have computers in our houses at all yet. This is a huge gap between our experiences as children.” These words, though spoken in simplicity, carry the weight of a profound generational shift — the recognition that in a single lifetime, the world of childhood has been utterly transformed. Lemire’s reflection is not a lament, but a meditation: a father watching time move faster than ever before, seeing both the wonder and the distance that technology has woven between past and present.

The origin of this quote lies in Lemire’s experience as both a creator and a father. Known for his works of graphic storytelling — tales that bridge emotion, memory, and imagination — he often explores the bonds between generations, the tension between progress and nostalgia. Here, he contemplates not the loss of innocence, but the transformation of it. When he was a boy, the world was tangible — games were played in fields, imaginations were the only screens, and silence was a common companion. Yet now, as he watches his son swipe across glowing glass, he realizes that childhood itself has evolved. The toys of the mind have been replaced by the tools of digital creation, and the wonder once drawn from nature and solitude now arises from connection — instantaneous, endless, and electric.

Lemire’s words echo the timeless truth that every generation is born into a different world, yet the pace of this transformation has never been so fierce. In ages past, centuries would pass before humanity’s tools truly changed. The shepherd’s crook, the carpenter’s hammer, the scholar’s parchment — all remained the same across generations. But now, in the span of a few decades, the childhood of one age becomes unrecognizable to the next. The gap Lemire describes is not merely technological; it is existential. It is the distance between two worlds — one of waiting and wondering, the other of instant knowledge and endless noise. His son lives in an age where information flows faster than thought, where the boundaries between imagination and reality blur beneath the glow of a screen.

And yet, the father’s heart does not condemn this change; it marvels at it. For Lemire, there is both awe and unease — awe at the tools his child wields so effortlessly, unease at what may be lost in their use. It is the eternal struggle between creation and consequence. Every new power humanity gains reshapes the soul as much as the world. The invention of the printing press changed the way people thought; the industrial age transformed how they worked and lived; now, the digital revolution is rewriting how we feel, dream, and remember. The challenge, as Lemire’s words suggest, is not to reject progress, but to remain human within it — to preserve presence in a world of distraction, and depth in a world of speed.

History, too, offers its reflections on such transformation. When the first electric light spread across cities, some mourned the vanishing of the night sky — that vast mirror of stars that once guided human thought toward mystery and wonder. Yet even then, the wise saw that the answer was not to curse the light, but to remember the dark — to preserve moments of stillness where the spirit could rest. So it is with technology today. The iPhone, the computer, the screen — these are not the enemies of the soul, but mirrors of it. They reflect both our brilliance and our longing. Like all tools, they must be guided by the heart’s wisdom, or they will guide us instead.

In his quiet reflection, Lemire reminds us that the true danger lies not in the tools themselves, but in forgetting what came before them. The child who grows up in a world of infinite access must also learn the value of patience, of solitude, of wonder that arises not from a click, but from silence. The parent who remembers a slower world must not only warn but also teach — not with fear, but with love. The bridge between generations is built not by nostalgia or surrender, but by shared understanding: the father learning from the son’s fluency with technology, and the son learning from the father’s wisdom of stillness.

The lesson, then, is one of balance — the eternal balance between innovation and intimacy, between progress and peace. Embrace technology as a tool, but not as a master. Teach your children not only how to connect across networks, but how to connect with the earth beneath their feet, with the silence in their minds, and with the people whose eyes they can meet. Let the old and the new walk together, as the sun and moon share the sky. For it is not the machines that shape our future, but the hearts that wield them.

So, children of both the digital dawn and the fading twilight, remember the wisdom of Jeff Lemire: to see the gap between generations not as a wound, but as a bridge to be built with patience, empathy, and care. The world may change beyond recognition, but the human spirit — curious, creative, and compassionate — remains the same. Guard it well. Teach your children to use their tools with gratitude and reverence, and remind them that even in a world of glowing screens, the greatest light still burns within.