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)