Category Archives: Blog

I is for Ice (AtoZChallenge)

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It may not be much fun to have your feet whip out from underneath you when trying to navigate an icy sidewalk, but ice in its other incarnations is nothing short of stunning (it is also symbolic of transformation being, after all, the reincarnation of water…).

I was reminded of this on the weekend when we headed out for a bit of spring ice climbing in Johnston Canyon in Banff National Park.

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Back in the farm days, ice was a major pain in the backside. Water buckets froze solid and it was an endless struggle to haul water by hand down to the livestock.

 

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Days when you have to bash a hole in the ice to get at the water below and then keep things topped up with water you’ve hauled from the top of the hill really make you realize just how much you love your horses (and how much they drink!) 

Today, though, ice is something we climb…

 

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Me nearing the top of Professor’s Ice Climb near Banff last year… 

 

Ice is something I never get tired of ogling. Aesthetically, it’s stunning the way ice catches the light, the way it’s always moving, forming and changing, the way it changes colour, the way it is simultaneously hard and unforgiving and fragile in a way that scares me to death.

 

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Grotto Canyon, practically in our back yard… 

 

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All of this crumbly stuff was dripping wet… some days one feels like a wetsuit would be the most appropriate clothing choice for climbing… 

 

 

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A couple of times a year in spring and fall, the edge of ice where it meets water is also symbolic of a seasonal transition. Soon, soon, we will be enjoying our annual spring melt here in the mountains. So far, though, it’s been a cold winter and for that the ice climbers (and skiiers) are grateful. 

What’s your favourite season? I’m partial to spring and fall when change is so obvious in every direction one looks it’s impossible to forget that all things are always in a state of flux. The only constant is change.

 

 

 

 

H is for Home

 

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This series of travel-themed blog posts would not be complete without the obligatory out-of-the-plane-window shot…

 

I’m a good traveller. It doesn’t take long for me to feel at home wherever I find myself. One of the ways I accomplish this settling in is to unpack a few of my favourite things…

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Oh my but I ate well in Paris! This was breakfast at my Air BNB… fresh fruit, Greek yogurt and some fine dark chocolate. Ooooh la-la… Peeking out to the right is the outline for the book about medically-assisted suicide… top left corner some of the many writing/drawing/colouring instruments I took with me… maps, of course, to orient myself, a notebook and my bullet journal to make sure I stayed on track and didn’t miss out on anything essential during my stay.

I like to unpack my bags, even if I’m only staying for a few days. I never travel without taking work with me – last week I took along a book I’m reviewing for the Ormsby Review and the current work in progress (the book for teenagers about medically assisted dying).  This is one of the great advantages and simultaneous disadvantages of working for myself. Home, wherever that may be, is also my office. There is no escaping. So, while it may sound delightful to be able to go to work in pj’s, the reality is that there is no such thing as leaving anything at the office.

These days, my office fits neatly into a small backpack, so at this very moment I’m taking a break from said dying book and working on this blog entry at the local Starbucks in Canmore.

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That’s me in my plaid shirt. The tangle of wires around my neck are my wireless (I know… that’s a lot of wires for wireless) headphones. I like to listen to music (of my choice) while I’m working. On the walk (or drive) to and from the coffee shop, I like to listen to audio books. I wish I could listen to audio books or podcasts while I write, but it seems the areas of the brain engaged are too similar. Sadly, I don’t hear a word of what I’m listening to… I’ve tried. It would be so cool to be able to read and write at the same time!

At home, as in my actual more or less regular place of residence, something that makes the place feel homey is having pictures up on the wall. I’ve got these photos up on a shelf in my office (Dani had them made for my 50th birthday) and here and there in the condo

 

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Family photos… time travel, of a kind. Dani printed a series of photos of me in each decade of my life and displayed them at my surprise birthday party. She also arranged to have people from my past show up for the event. It was quite the celebration, I must say… and one I am transported back to each time I look up from my desk and see the row of photos. 

 

I also have various of Dad’s paintings up on the walls (most are reproductions… sadly, I can’t afford the real thing!). I’m particularly fond of this one – a print of a painting Dad did of me riding one of my horses on a rare snowy day near Victoria.

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Dad is the same way, actually. When he travels he also takes a bit of home (and his studio) with him.

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In Spain last fall when we walked a section of the Camino de Santiago with Dani
he drew and painted most days, setting up in a corner of the hostel common room or pulling out his sketch pad at restaurants and bars we stopped at along the way.

 

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My home office doesn’t look so different to my home away from home office… 

 

Home is where your work is? Maybe that’s how it’s going to be more and more often as we move into the world of Digital Nomads who choose to live and work wherever the wind blows them…

And, just because today is H day, here’s a link to a short animated video about the search for happiness… From one of my favourite websites, Short of the Week…

 

 

 

 

Week One Recap

 

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I may have started the week in Paris in the springtime, but I seem to have gone back in time to the depths of winter here in the Rocky Mountains. Yesterday we headed into Johnston Canyon to do a bit of ice climbing… this is the base of one of the climbs in what must be one of the most stunning places on the planet. 

 

Well, so far so good. I’ve managed to stick to the schedule and post each day in April so far. The theme, Transitions, Travel, and Transformation has proven to be as flexible as I figured it needed to be to cover all eventualities this month… I knew it was going to be chaotic and, indeed, that has proven to be the case. If you are behind, here are the posts so far:

Day One – A is For Abbesses, Amelie, Artists, and More

Day Two – B is For Bordeaux, Beds, Bourse, Broken, Blue Book and a Brass Band

Day Three – C is For Community 

Day Four – D is For Dying (not as morbid as it sounds…)

Day Five -E is For Eggs

Day Six – F is For Feet- Fine Friends of Wanderers

Day Seven – G is For Goya, Guernica, Gaugin and van Gogh

The weather can change fast here in the mountains. Perhaps when I check in again with the Week 2 summary I’ll be posting photos of spring flowers in alpine meadows… Maybe not quite yet, but by the end of this challenge, perhaps.

 

G is for Goya, Guernica, Gaugin and van Gogh (AtoZChallenge)

 

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This portrait of the Spanish painter, Goya by Vicente Lopez Portaña was completed in 1826. Though it’s in the collection of the Prado Museum in Madrid, I don’t remember seeing it… Hardly surprising considering just how overwhelming that museum is. 

It has been said that Goya was the last of the great masters and the first of the modern painters which makes him a transition, of sorts. (If you haven’t been following along this month, my theme for the AtoZ Blogging Challenge is Travel, Transitions, and Transformations… ).

 

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I’m including this painting by Goya because of its title, The Second of May, 1808 (my birthday is on May 2nd… and isn’t a birthday often a time of transition?) The French invaded Spain and the two nations battled during the Peninsular War (1808-1914). The painting is rather gory, gruesome, and grim…

Goya, like a number of Spanish painters, spent time in France (he hung out in Bordeaux for a number of years). Picasso is another with strong ties to both nations.

 

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Picassos’s Guernica (1937)   Guernica is a Basque town in Spain that was bombed on April 26, 1937 by Germany as a means of lending a hand to the Spanish Nationalists.                                                                     (La exposición del Reina-Prado. Guernica is in the collection of Museo Reina Sofia, Madrid.Source page: http://www.picassotradicionyvanguardia.com/08R.php (archive.org), Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1683114)

While I was in Paris I went to a lecture which I thought was going to be about Picasso’s painting, Guernica. I imagined slides that would focus on specific details and then describe how and why Picasso chose the imagery he did.

The talk (in the basement of the Picasso Museum) was all in French, so I only caught bits and pieces, but it seemed to be more about Picasso’s role in the Spanish ex-pat artist community in Paris and his involvement with bringing what was going on during the Spanish Civil War to a broader audience than it was about deconstructing the painting in great detail. Despite the fact I struggled to follow along, it was a pretty cool experience to attend the lecture and doing so made me all the more determined to PRACTICE MY FRENCH between trips.

 

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Jug in the Form of a Head, Self Portrait by Paul Gaugin

I am including this jug by the French artist Gaugin because of the macabre story behind its creation. Gaugin had been visiting with Vincent van Gogh when Vincent lopped off part of his left ear. I’m not sure why, but Vincent left the ear at a brothel both he and Gaugin liked to visit. What does seem to be clear is that all of this ear-lopping upset Gaugin, who left town shortly after the incident. Back in Paris, Gaugin was unfortunate enough to witness the beheading of a criminal. This jug/self-portrait makes reference to both these traumatic incidents and goes to show that no experience in life is wasted when one is an artist. It’s a great example of transforming trauma into something compelling (I was going to say beautiful, but I don’t find the jug to be beautiful… but yes, compelling).

 

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Vincent van Gogh painted this portrait of Gaugin in 1888  ( Man in a Red Beret)

 

 

I hadn’t planned to include so many works of art in these posts, but art really is transformative in the way it can make us take another look at pretty much anything we experience (or can imagine). From some initial spark or idea or observation, artists create something worthy of our attention. Then we consumers of art respond and dissect and analyze and are moved by the product of their labours, which is a strange kind of alchemy indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

F is for Feet, Fine Friends of Wanderers

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Detail from the Plaza de Dali in Madrid. 

Walking. It’s a great way to travel, even though we don’t often think of our feet as a legitimate means to cover lots of territory. One of the things I love, love, love about Paris (and, there are plenty of things…) is the fact it is such a walkable city. Every day while I was there over the past couple of weeks I walked – miles and miles and miles.

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I passed this piece of sculpture while cutting through the Tuileries in Paris … I could have stayed underground, I suppose, but it wouldn’t have been nearly so much fun.  

Yes, I generally started out on the Metro, hopping on at the local station and heading somewhere close to my destination. But once turned loose in a neighbourhood, as often as not I would start roaming, knowing that at any point when exhaustion overtook me (and my feet) I wouldn’t be far from a Metro station and could always drop down below the streets and head for home.

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This piece of sculpture in Santiago de Compostela in Spain honours the work the feet do when it comes to transporting pilgrims across Spain. My feet felt every step of the 120 or so kilometers we walked in October as we travelled from Sarria to Santiago. (Want to see some photos of the journey I took with my father and daughter? Come follow us on Instagram: @thelastlegbook) 

I might not have thought to honour my feet with a whole post if it weren’t for the fact that they are starting to grumble and complain (you know, squeaky wheel gets the grease and all…). I am developing arthritis in various joints, but the one that causes me the most grief is my right big toe. It sounds ridiculous (big toes are somehow unfailingly undignified), but my goodness, I sure appreciate all the years of uncomplaining service I’ve had from my tootsies.

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Rodin had a thing about feet… well, I guess he had a thing about bodies and getting their various bits to look right… This display is in the Rodin Museum. 

 

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Detail from one of the sculptures in the sculpture garden at the Rodin Museum in Paris. 

Next week I have an appointment to see my sports medicine doctor who will be repeating a treatment he did about 18 months ago – injecting a soothing dose of cortisone into the problematic joint space. I was dubious last time, but after feeling the relief that followed the first injection, I am sold. I’d been told that I’d need to repeat as often as every 4-6 months, but I’ve managed to hike a lot of miles over the past 18 months before feeling the need to go back.

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Not that long ago I was lucky enough to find myself on a beach in the Caymen Islands… the first thing I did was to free my feet from the confines of my sandals. There is nothing like the feeling of warm sand beneath bare feet… There is something positively soul (sole?)-rejuvenating in the act of connecting directly with the earth, the ocean, the beach… Cramming my feet into heavy winter boots is just not the same… 

And on that note, I now need to load my computer back into my backpack and walk home. I’ve been out and about running (well, walking) errands here in Canmore, making good use of Shank’s Pony. The sun is blazing out there, reflecting off the snow. It’s cold and crisp but still suggestive of spring and I’m happy to be moving. We had a crazily long trip back from Paris – almost 24 hours of being trapped in too-small airplane seats or trying to get comfortable in airport waiting areas so it feels good to be breathing unfiltered air and able to get up and go when I feel the need.

Until tomorrow when we meet again over the letter G…