Mornings! If precedent existed, and I'm surprised that one doesn't, I'm afraid very little would stop me from filing a civil suit against mornings. Let me go even further. I would hire a herd of clean pressed, shiny, smiling lawyers to stampede the supreme court of Canada, if there were any way to prevent mornings from being the start of my day.

It's not that my mornings are all that bad. I do wake caressed by yards upon yards of smooth linen and shrouded by the rich red mountains and deep burgundy valleys of my velveteen comforter. However, in spite of this apparent luxury I still feel crucified by mornings with my queen-sized butt stapled to my queen-sized bed. Linen lines crosshatch sleep softened features that are glued to my feather pillow by the drool that stains it. A sense of unfairness raises the numb hand that slaps with inept futility at the snooze button for maybe the fifth time as I bemoan the immanent loss of my linen landscape.

Vague images of inventing an alarm clock slash magic machine that delivers a steaming, perfectly-brewed cup of coffee directly into my hand upon awakening stumble through my barely consciousness (yes, I meant to say "consciousness" rather than "conscious"). Instead, I perform a fuzzy, cranky dance with a pair of fuzzy ankle booties, a housecoat that remains stubbornly inside out, and a decided lack of depth perception. This dance is followed by the daily, and yet still dreaded ordeal of dropped spoons, spilled water and misplaced coffee crystals that inevitably ends in a thick sticky cup of instant tar that is nonetheless held like the family bible next to my heart as I curl into the corner of the couch and stare at a chaotic wall, made invisible through familiarity, while I contemplate the meaning of life, or what shoes will go best with my pants.

Lately I've been staring through that cluttered wall and into my past. I have been remembering what mornings used to be like. Fifteen years ago I woke up wrapped in layers of sweatshirts and an army surplus jacket that was encrusted with patches (my only pride) and stains that no soap could ever remove. My legs and feet were kept cozy and warm by the torn, patched and much-mended jeans running into tightly tied army boots like a polluted river that runs into subterranean caves. I always woke instantly, alert in spite of the aches in my body: aches gained from sleeping upright, knees tight to my chest, back to the wall with my hands cold and sore from clenching my precious shoulder bag to my chest all night, like a nun clenching the beads of her rosary. I remember stepping out of my alley and into morning like I now step into my lover's embrace, accepting that first kiss without charging for it. I would have a definite lilt to my walk as I left my malodorous haven in search of sustenance: sustenance that could be obtained for a prayer at the local mission. A bowl of hot grey gruel and a cup of hot grey coffee were all that used to get me through the day. That and my smile.

I never went hungry for more than a day. Starvation: though at times it felt immanent, in actuality never was. I was one of the many young Canadians who somehow slipped through Canada's more than adequate social safety net.

However, if I had been in a similar situation in either the United States, or some Third World country, I would not have survived. Moreover, I definitely would not have been able to improve my situation.

I am now living like the majority of Canadians: I do not have to sleep with my back to a wall, nor do I spend every waking hour in search of food. I have not only gained a certain degree of comfort, I have gained time as well. I use this time, like most Canadians use theirs: I whine. I whine about the weather, mornings and other things I can't change. I also whine about politics, social issues and other things that I could change.

I can now afford the luxury of whining. I have earned the time necessary to do so, time that I and other Canadians are gifted by our society: time we could gift back to Canada by working towards social change instead of just whining about the need for such change. Maybe I will invent that alarm clock slash coffee machine.

More realistically, I'll probably just staple my butt back to my bed.

by Sandra Hill

CHANGE or ACCEPTANCE-- it's YOUR CHOICE

WHAT NOW?