It is a measure of the values and priorities of our community that we react only when things become dire – when our most vulnerable seek shelter and comfort in our neighbourhoods and laneways.
Over the years, I’ve written about this issue, for four reasons.
Many of these columns begin quite unexpectedly – with an image, an overheard remark, a vague feeling. This week’s is no different.
When we are in distress, when are in peril, we rely on our first responders. Firefighters. Paramedics. Police. And, the dispatchers who sort through often-harrowing calls and stay on the line until help arrives.
Last month, Sean Eckford wrote a story in the paper I write for about psychiatric care at Sechelt Hospital that ought to concern everyone in our community.
It was late Christmas Eve, 1990, and I was sitting in the wondrously beautiful Railway Room in the Centre Block on Parliament Hill.
To be a professional writer means dealing with editors.
I have been thinking about art and love in the last month or so – what they are and what they can do to lift our wings and, perhaps, elevate mental health and stay the storms that buffet mental illness.
A couple of weeks ago, Joe died of an overdose.
Let’s be frank.
The Sunshine Coast is not Manhattan.