I have a shelf in my studio crammed with mismatched journals I have kept over the years. There are sketchbooks from high school, full of still lifes I'd set up in my kitchen and scenes I drew with stiff fingers, in the cold wind off Oak Bay, Victoria, where I grew up. The most dog-eared journal, full of sketches of church towers, windmills, and fields of sheep, I kept the year I back-packed around Europe. Recent journals (of every sort you can imagine--I am always looking for the right combination of papers) teem with notes and drawings from sailing the west coast as well as travels to places like Honduras and Patagonia. I am always surprised by the flood of vivid memories even the most faded drawings bring, the sound of children in a park, the smell of French cigarettes, a warm wind, cold stone….