BOSTON

1976   I was 37 years old as the country celebrated its Bicentennial anniversary. Amy was 11 years old, Beth 7, and Sara 5.  My medical practice of 5 years, once a source of unbridled pleasure and satisfaction, was beginning to lose its luster, and my emotional, and spiritual wellbeing was gradually declining.  Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I did not know this was the beginning of a journey that would take me to places I never could have imagined.

I was attending an Oncology review course at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.  Greeting me at the conference hall for the 9 a.m. session was an all too familiar scene: a spacious hall with rows of tables facing a lectern located in front of a large screen, and smaller tables along the sides of the hall with coffee, tea, and water.  Each registrant was given a syllabus with a daily schedule of lectures and an outline of each presentation, along with a pad of paper and one or more very sharp pencils.  The lights were dimmed, the first slide projected on the screen, and the speaker began to read directly from the slide, the same material – word for word - that was in the syllabus.  It took less than 10 minutes for the sleep inducing boredom to set in. I knew from previous Continuing Education courses my fate was sealed for the next 3 days.  Or was it? This was the last place on earth I wanted to be on that day, and after 30 excruciating minutes I got up and walked out, never looked back, and did not return for the remainder of the 3-day course.

I walked back to the hotel to get my canvas shoulder bag with my faithful Parker 45 fountain pen and sketchbooks, and set out to explore the city.  And explore it is exactly what I did, walking through every section and neighborhood of Boston over the next 3 days.  On the third day, I took the train across the Charles River and wandered about Cambridge and the Harvard campus.  I loved every minute of each day, quite remarkable for someone who was not fond of sight seeing, and dining alone.  It was more than just the visual delights of Boston’s urban landscape that captivated me; I was experiencing an incredible sense of being centered within myself.  Everything was as it should be in my small world.  I was doing what I was meant to do. 

Those three days in Boston 36 years ago were to mark the beginning of an incredible journey, taking me through the most intense years of my life.  Four years later I would make the decision to leave my practice and pursue a life as an artist.