in the early morning hush

light moments

Autumn Will

A Lighter Take On Swine Flu Pandemonium
I know it’s serious, and I pray no one else dies from this, but I can’t help making fun of the pandemonium and media frenzy that has taken place around the world; the pandemonium taking place today in my province, as people line up for six hours or more, people with chronic illnesses, with their babies and toddlers, standing in the freezing cold, hacking and coughing on each other, waiting to get this vaccine. There’s got to be a better way. On Swine Flu I’m standing in line, and I’ve got a gun. Gimme that shot for H1N1. Roses are red, violets are blue. Let’s make love; not swine flu. And for y

Discipline
“Don’t hit your brother.” “Don’t fight!” “We don’t hurt people. It’s not nice.” On the playground, at the grocery store, on children’s TV shows; out of our grown-up mouths. Hear it, believe it, repeat it. “Don’t fight.” “Don’t hit.” Drill it into their moldable minds like an annoying Internet ad, always in the background. Be effective parents. Be consistent; be real. Teach them about non-violence, sharing, honesty— Life’s greatest lessons. And when you find your youngest colouring the National Post in purple, his innocent

On being wired differently
“Our home will be the only super-wired house on our block!” you grin at me amid a mess of wires that fall two stories from our new master bedroom, branching out like octopus arms to a spot below the basement stairs. I think you’ve gone mad. It’s nearly midnight as I hold a flashlight up for you to find the missing link. We haven’t eaten, but you’re being fed by some crazy kind of adrenaline— and I, by the passion in your eyes, as you realize your brilliant scheme plotted back in March when this house was just concrete and mud. It’s nearly one a.m. now; we flutter

Thoughts from a Gratitude Journal
So much seems trivial studying the sun-kissed tulip blossoming in the clear glass jar at my bedside: be beautiful stretch toward the light. Sun-Kissed by Heather Grace Stewart

Instinct
Golden sunshine shimmers on this lazy lake like sequins. A lone cormorant flaps its wings incessantly, as if in defiance of the coming cold. Oblivious couples walk arm in arm beneath the weeping willows, kicking up dead leaves like forgotten arguments. They sport only t-shirts— the joggers, shorts— as if wearing them will impede the inevitable: snow, sleet, heavy traffic, Christmas crowds, cell-phones ringing in the middle of a movie. The cormorant spreads his wings and praises the sun; preening on his rightful throne, unaware that winter is