ast week a group of New Agers set up in Christie Pits and meditated in shifts next to the temporary garbage dump that had been set up there: frizzy hair and hoop earrings; stretchy clothes from Lululemon; beards and dreads and thick-rimmed, oversized glasses. They sat crossed-legged, lining the makeshift fencing around the mountain of trash. Facing inward, they closed their eyes and Zenned themselves right through the smell. I heard about it on the radio and read about it on a blog. The blog posted photos where you could see crowds watching the people meditating, scarves and hands clutched to their noses and mouths as they stared.
It’s been seven weeks now since the city workers strike began, and the smell of rotting garbage is beginning to overwhelm. The odour hangs with the humidity. It
