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Transactions with Beauty.
Pour yourself a cup of coffee or tea and relax. 
Thanks for being here.
And remember, 
you are required to make something beautiful.

- Shawna



A Snowy Weekend in Banff

A Snowy Weekend in Banff

A slow and snowy post today, as I'm still regrouping after spending a beautiful few days in Banff. We went because my partner, Rob, was part of a group show at the wonderful Canada House Gallery

Banff Springs Hotel

We did things like treat ourselves to a cocktail at the Banff Springs Hotel. 

Banff Springs Hotel

We went to Bow Falls, and took photos. It was really cool to see it covered in snow, and just burbling up in places. The sound of this was amazing. 

Bow Valley Falls in a snowstorm
Bow Valley Falls

We walked in the bitter wind and falling snow all along the river. 


Banff Canoe Club
Where do I go from here?

I love the sign above, which says, Where can I go from here? 

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I hugged a few trees. 

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And we just generally were gleeful about being in the falling snow and watching it accumulate. 

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I'm going to leave you today, with a photo of me beside Bow River, looking decidedly cold. (Though I was wearing so many layers, that it honestly wasn't that bad). 

And, a poem by Linda Pastan, because the ending of it was sort of our mantra this weekend. You can't do anything about the snow, so you might as well relax, right?

Misreading Housman

by Linda Pastan

On this first day of spring, snow
covers the fruit trees, mingling improbably   
with the new blossoms like identical twins   
brought up in different hemispheres.   
It is not what Housman meant
when he wrote of the cherry
hung with snow, though he also knew   
how death can mistake the seasons,   
and if he made it all sound pretty,   
that was our misreading
in those high school classrooms
where, drunk on boredom, we had to recite   
his poems. Now the weather is always looming

in the background, trying to become more   
than merely scenery, and though today   
it is telling us something
we don't want to hear, it is all
so unpredictable, so out of control
that we might as well be children again,   
hearing the voices of thunder
like baritone uncles shouting
in the next room as we try to sleep,   
or hearing the silence of snow falling   
soft as a coverlet, even in springtime   
whispering: relax, there is nothing   
you can possibly do about any of this.


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A Splinter of Hope

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3 Poems About Now