
Sketchbooks and journals have been my constant companions since my life transitioned dramatically from medicine to art in 1975. Although each serves a specific function, they often become inseparable, sharing the task of keeping me sane, and occasionally, even centered.
Who would know my dreams, my fears
All the hopes through all the years
My rooms, my spaces, large and small
Would anyone really care, at all
Books and journals, neat and tattered
Which in my time were all that mattered
An empty pen, long since gone dry
That in its time kept my
World of dreams and aspirations
Bound in notes and illustrations
When I depart from who knows where
Will anybody really care
About all the things I cherished so
And with great reluctance, let them go
(From Transitions)