A cold wet November night, the kind of night I think about on warm dry July nights, sitting on my porch, pecking out words like I am doing now, watching the neighbourhood mums push their prams up the incline that is East 19th, the heat and their effort combining to leave behind the faintest trace of perfume.

Tonight it is not those moms I am thinking of but those who have braved the elements, not to mention their critics, to sleep in tents on the north lawn of the Vancouver Art Gallery in an effort to show people that the world we have made of ourselves is not one we should continue to take at face value.

The second time I visited the Occupation Vancouver site was on a similar, though slightly warmer night like tonight. What I saw amazed me. Not the cinema or the library or the open air study sessions but three figures working quickly and efficiently between tents, carving into the Earth not destruction but a drainage system so that they, and perhaps us one day, might sleep more comfortably.