I usually take a break for a few days between posts to give myself and my readers a rest, but hey, I’ll just put this up here while it’s fresh in my mind.

I guess the topic of confrontations is uppermost in my mind because of a few conversations I’ve been having with my son.

He’s at that formative age and he keeps asking me how to be assertive, and I think the way people handle confrontations is definitely the key to being assertive.

I was having lunch with a good friend a few days ago and she said, “Oh I always avoid confrontations.”

The funny thing is I immediately thought to myself, that I don’t. And yet having written the previous blog posts, that’s not true.

More and more I am learning to avoid confrontations too.

I mean I didn’t confront my doctor when she insulted me, and I’ve learned to avoid bullies on their dung heaps too.

But I think that’s because the doctor is someone I see, what? A few times a year?

As you get older you realize that you can get along with anyone a few times a year.

And the bully on the dung heap–well I just stopped going to that particular dung heap.

But when it comes to family, learning to deal with confrontations is even more important.

Growing up I never imagined you’d have to defend yourself against family members.

It just didn’t occur to me.

But family members are people, and like Dr. Phil says, “You teach people how to treat you.”

Even the best people can start taking advantage of you, if you don’t speak up.

Within my family I am pretty much at peace.

At least I feel at peace, and that’s taken a LONG time to achieve!

And it’s only happened, ironically, when I learned to restrain myself.

I have been blessed with three son in laws from three different cultures, and in the process I have had to get along with in-laws from three different cultures.

Needless to say there have been challenges.

My philosophy in dealing with them is simple.

Give them as much of whatever they want as I possibly can.

Any request they make, if I can easily or even not so easily accommodate it, I say, “Yes.” I have even at times inconvenienced myself in order to do this.

And I do it without reservation or reluctance and definitely without expecting anything in return.

But then…when I have to say no, I do so, again without reservation or reluctance. Simply by saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

No explanations. No further apologies. Just a simple statement of fact.

The first time I did that with one of my daughters’ inlaws the expression on their face was surprise. Then it quickly dissipated. What could they say? And then later, again if they asked me for something, and I could do it, I did.

Voila. No hard feelings.

I do this with my daughters. I do this with their spouses and I do this with my in laws.

I also do this with my parents. But with my parents there’s one exception. I very seldom, if ever, say no. I find a way to accommodate their request if I possibly can.

With other people, I don’t hesitate to say no.

It’s actually pretty simple. And it’s worked quite well.

Same thing with confrontations with family members.

If you approach it with a sense of calm, it’s actually not that hard.

It takes a little bit of deconstructing some of the elaborate societal dances we do with each other, but it’s more than possible.

In Pakistan we have a term for when a guest keeps refusing food out of politeness. It’s called ‘takkalaf’.

And it’s considered the hallmark of manners.

The first time someone offers you refreshment you always have to decline. I think it’s because the person might not actually have enough of the food or drink and they might just be offering it out of politeness.

Only when they keep insisting, do you actually accept the refreshment.

The funny thing is that people in other cultures automatically do this takkalaf when they deal with each other as well.

In business situations, I’ve had editors or people say things they didn’t expect me to call them on.

If they’re late for a meeting, they’ll say, “Oh dear, I’m so late.”

And the other person is supposed to be ‘polite’ and say, “That’s okay.” Without any hint of annoyance.

But if I’m genuinely annoyed, I’ll answer. “Maybe next time you can be more prompt.”

That’s it. No more. Just a gentle rebuke. And then get down to business without holding any grudges.

The person has been informed that they’ve committed a breach in protocol, it was noticed, but that you’re willing to move on from it.

That’s a pretty basic example. In reality it doesn’t usually bother me that much if a person is late unless it’s a really long time. I know that no one has a perfect record of being on time, we all err sometimes, so that’s not a problem. It’s only if being late becomes a habit.

Basically my philosophy is not to participate in takkalaf (except when it comes to food and drink).

So if an editor shows me an illustration sample that doesn’t work, I don’t smile and nod and pretend that it does. Or if there’s back copy that’s simply inappropriate I find a gentle way to express my displeasure.

No takkalaf.

And sometimes the best way to do that is just by pausing. Taking my time to answer.

It’s not for effect. I really am formulating my response, but doing so, silently, provides a bit of squirm factor.

They’re guaging my expression (or my silence on the phone) and they can do nothing but wait for the verdict.

It’s a powerful position.

And it should be used SPARINGLY! And only when necessary! Or it will completely lose its effectiveness.

In fact most of the time that I do it, I don’t even realize I’m doing it till it’s over. It really is that genuine.

How often have I used this tactic?

About two or three times a year. That’s it.

Before I come off sounding like a complete ogre, the one thing I am most proud of is that publishers consistently tell me that I am a ‘pleasure to work with’. Those are their exact words. I turn in work promptly, I don’t make a fuss over inconsequential details and I try to be reasonable.

The great thing is that these tactics can also be used on relatives.

If a relative is imposing something on me I don’t pretend it’s okay.

Recently a relative of mine indirectly insulted my father.

This happened completely out of left field. And this was a person I liked and had even defended at times.

I just stood there numb, not believing what I had just heard.

And my first instinct was to take it slow. Don’t act. Do nothing. Think about it.

You can’t un-ring a bell.

No need to go off on someone half-cocked.

It’s ALWAYS better to err on the side of mercy.

But afterwards, the more I thought about the situation, the more I realized the dynamics and that this relative of mine had confused my past mercy towards her, for stupidity.

Now I don’t care if she thinks I’m stupid.

(Actually having people think you’re stupid can be very convenient. They underestimate you and leave you alone.)

But I did care about her insulting my father.

And the problem was she wasn’t on some obscure dung heap somewhere that I could avoid.

She was in my extended family and I was bound to run in to her on a regular basis.

In such a situation you have to change tactics. You have to confront the problem.

Dr. Phil always says too, when dealing with your children, try to avoid confrontations but darn it, if you have to have one, you better win!

I feel the same way towards family members.

The lucky thing is I have Islam on my side. Being the oldest, my father is the elder, and we are taught in Islam to respect our elders.

That was the basis of what I was going to confront her with, not whether or not she thought I was stupid. (Who the heck cares about that???)

But darn if I’m going to let any relative put down my father like that.

And knowing what I know about her background, I have more than enough amunition to put her in her place.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

Not because I particularly care that I can attack her father, but because if I don’t, people like her will think that they can run around bad-mouthing other people’s fathers without it coming back on themselves.

It’s the old ‘people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’.

What I’ve learned is that in such a case, it is actually BETTER for family dynamics to confront such a person.

It shows them their limits. It delineates the boundaries of what’s acceptable.

I will bide my time. Wait for the right opportunity.

She’s been avoiding me, but that’s okay. I can wait.

And when the time is right, I will strike her back, exactly as she struck me, with a dig at her father. No more, no less.

The secret is to restrain myself. Have a set of principles and stick to them ethically and rigidly. Do not allow myself to become the aggressor!

This might sound a bit conceited but the intention has to be to teach the person a lesson–not to destroy them–but to make them behave.

And definitely not to go beyond the injury that they gave me.

To show them, hey, you want to play that game? I can play it too, and you’re not going to like it.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

There is a lot of wisdom in that.

And who knows, by nipping this type of behaviour in the bud (because I really can’t see her insulting my father in my presence ever again) it can lead to longer lasting peace within the family as a whole.

And that’s the only reason to bother confronting her at all.

All I know is that it’s incredibly frustrating.

I know I gave myself permission to write a lousy first draft, and that I did, but still, I was hoping there wouldn’t be quite so much work to do on the manuscript!

I feel like I should be further along. I feel like one of my friends described, “stuck in a rut with my wheels spinning”.

Make no mistake, the publishing industry is probably at it’s absolute worse right now!

When all this started back in 2008, a colleague of mine said that he thought that with the economic downturn people would be turning even more to books because they provided such value for their money!

I thought to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding!” Books are luxury items.

In an economic downturn what are you going to buy first? Food or a book?

And it really worries me that I don’t seem to see that many people reading any more!

It’s just not something people really emphasize like they used to.

So what’s the answer?

A while back I heard that 20% of people by 80% of the books. And that’s ALL books!

And any hope that I have of getting in on the Muslim niche marketing thingie is kind of gone.

There is a whole field of Muslim books out there, but quite frankly most of them are entirely geared towards only Muslim audiences. They’re completely unsuitable for pluralistic society. Quite frankly they’re far too preachy!

They’re books designed to prove that Islam is beautiful and correct. Nothing wrong with that per se. There’s Christian literature that’s designed to evoke the beauty of Christianity and I’m sure there’s Jewish and Hindu literature that espouses the beauty of those doctrines too, but these are all niche markets and I’m just not geared towards a niche market.

So I announced a few days ago that I finished the first draft of my hajj novel, and now I realize that it really will need a lot of work.

It’s so frustrating!

I knew it would need work, but I didn’t think it would need that much work.

I even went ahead and dropped a hint to my agent to let her know that it was coming together.

Oh well, back to work on it tomorrow.

I have lots of ideas, but unlike the last time that I got feedback on that second project of mine, I’m not ‘excited’ per se. Maybe it’s because of this cold I’ve had. Maybe it’s run me down and I’m tired.

And maybe it’s because of how busy this week is going to be from Wednesday to Friday!

But I definitely feel that it’s one step forward and two back.

I wish it was easier to write a novel that works now than it was when I first started.

But it isn’t.

Oh well.

Went to the doctor on Thursday because the cold was settling into my sinuses and it felt like an elephant was sitting on my face.

Got a prescription for antibiotics but it was funny. The doctor’s office I go to has finally computerized all the files. And my poor doctor was hunched over the keyboard hunting and pecking at the keys. I asked her how the transition was going and she said, “Horrible! Everything takes twice as long as before!”

And I couldn’t help thinking it would be easier if you learned how to type!

She asked me how things were going with me. I told her wonderfully! Then I told her about Big Red Lollipop and the recognition it had received in the States.

Then she grumbles, “Was that the book you gave me?”

I’d given her a copy of Many Windows. She’s Jewish and I thought she’d particularly like the Hanukkah story I’d written in it.

I said no, this was my picture book. Then I told her how it had received more recognition in the States than in Canada.

And she said, “Oh well, you know the States… those people have such poor taste in literature! They like anything.”

Then she glanced at me and said, “No offence.”

I was too stunned to burst into laughing. Although typing this out I am laughing. Hard.

I just looked at her blankly and said, “Of course not.” While it slowly dawned on me that she’d kind of insulted my writing.

Oh well. Everyone’ s allowed to have an opinion. And believe it or not, she’s still one of the better doctors I’ve had.

The best doctor I had was Chinese but she moved back to her native Edmonton, and I miss her dearly.

I’ve also had a doctor who was Muslim, who, when she found out that I was a writer, said, “Oh you know what I  would do if I were a writer?”

“What?” I said.

She said, “I would go up north, lock myself in a cabin, and write a novel in TWO WEEKS!”

I didn’t say anything at the time. My son was just a baby and lying on the examining table. I didn’t want to tick her off.

So I just murmurred, “You would, would you?”

She said, “Oh YES! There’s no reason why you can’t write a novel in two weeks!”

I’m not sure how long she talked about writing during that visit, but it was quite a while.

The only reason I went to her in the first place was because the wait for my Chinese doctor was often two hours. Mind you, when you did finally get in to see my Chinese doctor, she was very thorough and really listened to what was wrong with you! It was a worthwhile price to pay. I ditched the Muslim and went back. I got to the point where I didn’t mind it. I’d just park myself in the waiting room and take a nap. Really. I’d fall asleep and wake at the sound of my name.

At least she didn’t try to hone in on my field of expertise. She stuck to hers and did it well, which was more than enough to earn my respect and gratitude.

Now there’s a field that doesn’t suffer from recession! Doctors!

But alas, I’m not wired that way.

I can never be a real doctor.

I can only play one in a story.

But back to that Jewish doctor. She did say that learning the new skills with the computerized files was good for her because it staved off Alzheimers.

And right then I thought of that movie I’d watched on the omnimax theatre at the Science Centre called Wired to Win, which talked about how creative endeavours always involved creating new pathways in your mind.

And the reason why each story is so darn hard is because each story takes a different path (or else you’re getting formulaic) and that means the brain is creating new pathways with each book you ever write. There is no duplication of process. One book will never help you write the next because it’s got to be completely different.

And I thought, yeah, well, how hard this is also means that it reduces my risk of Alzheimers.

So in that way it’s all good too.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t darn hard.

And snide remarks from doctors sure don’t help.

I suspect the majority is starting to feel under siege and they’re tired of political correctness.

When I think of Christmas what is seared into my memory is the first grade teacher who insisted I write a letter to Santa even though I told her I didn’t believe in him.

She told me to write a letter anyway so I did. I listed all kinds of toys that I wished I had but knew we couldn’t afford–it was only imaginary anyway.

Up until that time the bane of my existence was that very few teachers could ever spell my name right. And their pronunciations would make me wince!

Substitute teachers were the worst. They’d come down the attendance list and I knew when they got to my name because they’d hesitate.

What convinced me that Santa existed? I received a reply to my letter from Santa–AND MY NAME WAS SPELLED RIGHT!

Plus I got a little peppermint candy cane and some chocolates, just like everyone else.

I was convinced my parents were wrong, my sister was wrong. They were wrong, wrong, wrong. There really was a Santa and I’d get everything I wanted on my list!

You know it’s really not that hard to deal with deprivation.

I grew up poor. I came to terms with it.

But raising such false hopes in a poor immigrant kid is just CRUEL. What was that grade one teacher thinking???

I’m sure that teacher didn’t mean to be cruel, but she was–with her ignorance.

For so many years I felt ultra bitter about Christmas.

It didn’t help that we had our own celebrations.

We were so poor that we received one gift a year–on Eid ul Fitr–and because wrapping paper cost money my parents wrapped it in newspaper. They said, “What does it matter? You’re going to rip it anyway.” So I never got a pretty gift and I never had anything to brag about. Not like the other kids who came back to school after the Christmas holidays and recited the list of things they got for Christmas.

I’m not saying this to elicit any kind of sympathy.

I survived all of that.

And yes, there was a time when I felt bitter about my experiences, but with maturity those feelings have passed.

And ironically it was the effort I put into my own children’s Eid celebrations that helped me exorcize a lot of these old demons. I made sure they had a FANTASTIC Eid! And they had plenty to brag about when they went back to school. Same with Halloween. I’d give them each $5 to $10 so they could go to the stores and buy the chocolates that the other kids in the neighbourhood would be going door to door for, so they wouldn’t feel left out in any way.

It worked. They grew up happy and secure in their own celebrations.

I think what really changed my mind about Christmas though is that this same society that was at times quite difficult to grow up in, was now supporting my lifelong dreams and ambitions in terms of children’s books.

It’s easy to be magnanimous when your dreams are coming true.

And I’ve gone from the point where I’d cringe if I was wished a “Merry Christmas” to the point where I’ll just shrug.

Look.

I’m genuinely happy for you and your Christmas cheer.

I get it. You’re having fun and you want to include me in it.

But don’t.

It doesn’t apply to me, and that’s fine.

It’s your thing, not mine.

Wishing someone like me a Merry Christmas is just silly. You know I don’t celebrate it, or you should know it just by the way I dress!

It would be like wishing me, a proud Canadian, a Happy Fourth of July.

It’s a head-scratching ‘huh?’ moment! Doesn’t apply.

Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to have a Merry Christmas, but why do you want to inflict that on me?

Why do you want to possibly remind me of the feelings of exclusion I grew up with?

The feeling like I’m standing on a cold porch looking inside at a Norman Rockwell Christmas scene that I know will never apply to me?

Oh I won’t hold it against you if you tell me Merry Christmas.

I know you don’t mean anything by it.

But if you were to take a moment and reflect, oh what a difference there could be.

If you were to use the more neutral: Happy Holidays or Season’s Greetings–boy would I appreciate that!

And in fact, my current policy is to say “Merry Christmas” to anyone I know who is Christian and celebrates it. And I say Happy Chanukah/Hanukah to any person I know who is Jewish at this time of the year.

I consider it to be an act of consideration.

You know like what Dale Carnegie said about how a person’s name is the sweetest sound to their ears, and learning to pronounce a person’s name correctly is one of the most considerate things you can do for them. And when someone repeatedly mispronounces someone’s name it’s a form of an insult.

Well, greeting someone with the appropriate greeting is kin to that, in my opinion.

If you know that this person is Muslim, or Hindu or Jewish or any other non-Christian denomination, why, oh why would you wish them a Merry Christmas?

If you don’t know, then fine. I doubt they’d take offense.

I’ve learned not to take offense.

It took me a LONG time, but I just shrug it off now.

But if someone takes the trouble to greet me with Season’s Greetings or Happy Holidays, you can bet that my face breaks into a big wide smile! Especially if that person’s one of those Christians who’s a real Christmas afficianado.

And I reply back, both heartily and sincerely, “Merry Christmas!”

And I mean it with all my heart!

And when so many people actually wish me a Happy Eid (at the end of Ramadan or the Hajj) it gives me LOADS of joy!

So in that very spirit I say Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, Happy Chanukah to all that celebrate it, and the joy of the season for everyone else!

And may the new year contain the fulfillment of all your hopes and dreams.

Had more than enough trouble trying to just download my emails and didn’t have time to blog.

But now, finally, I have a moment–and more importantly internet access!

The last few days have been amazing!

Like I said, I have been astonished at the hospitality and generosity of the people in London!

When I first sent out the word that I was coming, I was contacted by a lovely lady on an academic children’s literature listserve that I belong to offering to host me!

Wow! I thought. And at first I declined. (I don’t like imposing! When I go visit relatives out of town I don’t even stay with them!) But she insisted it would be no bother, and I ended up taking her up on her generous offer.

In fact I’m writing this from her upstairs sitting room or parlour (not sure what they would call it!). A fire is burning in the grate (it’s gas–but still cosy!) and their cat Potcha (sp?) is lying asleep on the Persian rug in front of it with an expression of extreme contentment on her face.

The room is lined floor to ceiling with books! Almost all the rooms of the house are similary festooned! Outside of a library I’ve never seen such a selection!

They’re mostly science fiction and fantasy, the lady, Farah, is a professor at Middlesex university and her husband, Edward is a charming gentleman in the process of retiring from his post as a university medieval history professor in Dublin.

Talk about fascinating conversations! I’ve been picking both their brains on subjects from the civil wars in the seventeenth century to the idea that King John wasn’t so bad after all, as well as science fiction and fantasy of course.

I have dabbled in reading basically most genres of children’s books, and that included a phase in science fiction and fantasy. I think what turned me off science fiction, eventually, was the idea that all the books I read assumed that the people who survived into the future, and explored and colonized space and all that, were destined to be white and Judeo-Christian. What? Were they the only ones who were going to survive???

It was a turn off, and it was interesting that Farah had noticed it too. She suggested we write a paper together about the subject, and I’m really tempted to do it despite all the other stuff I have on my plate.

It seems that God meant me to stay with these lovely people (obviously since He allowed it to happen) and I’m learning as much as I can while I’ve got the opportunity. It’s been much more interesting than if I’d stayed at a hotel, so there’s definitely something to be said for billeting!

And quite honestly, I think I do get a bit lonesome in hotel rooms.

The biggest worry I had was how to manage the privacy issue, but they’ve been completely accommodating. Islamically I’m not supposed to be alone with any male who isn’t my mehrem (my husband, father, brother or other close male relative). They were talking about Edward leaving the house while Farah was out and I told them, no, that if there was any reason for that, I’d be the one to step out!

I can’t imagine kicking a man out of his own home like that!

I was trying to think of a good gifts to thank them for their generosity besides, of course taking them out to dinner. I figured that Farah, being a science fiction and fantasy expert, would perhaps enjoy having something peculiar that’s been sitting among my prized possessions for years.

Way back in 2000 I guess, J.K. Rowling had been invited to Toronto to a special fund-raising event for the Osborne Collection. The Osborne collection, for those of you who don’t know, is a special collection of very old children’s books that all kind of academics come to check out for research purposes. They had invited J.K. and she had accepted, and the event included a ‘reading’ at the skydome and then a more intimate ‘celebrity’ event that included a few dozen Canadian authors and HER to participate.

I was one of the ‘celebrity’ authors chosen. I sat at a table with people who’d paid a good amount of money to be there, but seemed decidedly disappointed not be seated with her J.K. Rowling.

As giveaways I had donated some copies of my current novel at the time Dahling if You Luv Me Would You Please Please  Smile and we each got a copy of J.K.’s latest book Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and it was signed!

Well, it had sat on my shelf ever since. I had considered selling it on ebay, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I wouldn’t read it either because, I don’t know, as I’ve gotten older, I just can’t read fantasy any more, it seems more and more sacriligious and it makes me uncomfortable.

Magic is considered a big sin in Islam, and many fantasy novels deal with attributing powers and authority that we believe belongs to God, to inanimate or sometimes animate things, and that’s a big no-no for us. I used to just ignore all that and read the stories anyway but it’s gotten increasingly hard for me to do that. Hence, the reason that I never have been able to get into the Potter books (plus I didn’t find them actually that well written).

But, I thought, Farah might like having it. It was definitely a valuable gift. But I wanted to find out if she even liked Harry Potter, so I went on her website and read most of her articles.

The fact that I couldn’t find any reference to HP made me think that she didn’t view them too highly!

Plus I wondered if she already had a set.

I made a pathetic attempt to find out by asking her a very stupid question in an email as to whether I could pick up a signed copy for a niece who was a big fan while in London. She told me that she couldn’t help me with that.

Well, on Friday night, I finally presented her with the gift. I watched her face carefully while she tore off the yellow tissue paper and undid the white ribbon.

“Oh!” she said, as she saw what it was. I told her to open it.

I had been imagining the scene in my head for a while now and in my head it had ended in so many different ways and yet nothing prepared me for what happened next.

I said, (dramatically), “It’s signed.”

“Oh,” she said again.

Then she put it up on the mantelpiece and I fell back to my plan B. I said, “You’re free to regift it, or do whatever you like with it.”

And she said something that really made me happy. She said that it would probably end up in a really good charity auction!  She’d wait for a really good cause. And I thought alhamdu lillah! That was just perfect.

Then I took out my other gift for her, three copies of my books: Wanting Mor, The Roses in My Carpets, and Many Windows.

That’s when her face lit up!

I told her that I hadn’t signed them yet, because I thought she might want me to sign them for someone else as gifts and I assured her that if she wanted to regift them she was free to do so. Not at all, she assured me, she would cherish them.

It was very touching!

It ended so wonderfully!

Then yesterday I went to Stonehenge. Caught the sightseeing bus from Victoria station (wow, what a bustling area!), we drove two hours (past Harrod’s department store with its window displays of white women mannequins that were growing branches and turning into trees) and past Kensington and other parts of west London I hadn’t seen on the tour bus, all the way down to Amesbury.

Got to Stonehenge just before 3 pm. I will post pictures when I can.

It occurred to me that it really isn’t as impressive as it appears on T.V.

So much of it is about angles and presentation. It’s a bunch of big rocks in a field, most of which have keeled over.

And yet it’s also more.

I’ll write more about it later. This is getting way too long.

Suffice it to say, I’m having a fabulous time with Farah and Edward. They’re taking me to lunch in Brick Lane which apparantly used to be heavily Jewish (Farah’s Jewish) and is now THE spot in London to get the best curry!

Oh, and speaking of Indian food, we had the most scrumptious dinner of Sri Lankan food (halal) on Friday night, and there was enough left over for dinner last night. Farah had some amazing Indian lime pickle that just went down so well with it! Yum!

Signing off.

It was a bit of an adventure getting into Leeds. Normally the train from Bradford takes twenty minutes, but alhamdu lillah, I did get there, albeit about half an hour late.

Marjorie lives in a small town outside of Leeds and towards the east.

I knew her from her work at Paper Tigers and the voices of th Pacific Rim project.

Paper Tigers is a fabulous website  that tries to get the word out about books with settings or themes involving cultures of the South Asia and the Pacific rim.

Marjorie interviewed me for the blog and she’s been kind in her reviews of my books.

As soon as I knew I was coming to the UK I wanted to hook up with her!

I should have asked her what she looked like but it completely escaped me. Luckily she gave me her cell phone # and I called her from the train station.

She turned out to be this tall slim brunette in a dramatic red alpaca cape.

It wasn’t a traditional tea shop she took me to but rather a swanky little British lunch restaurant.

We both had the fish plate, which was wonderful and oh the conversation!

We talked like we’d done this a thousand times!

Then we got the waitress to take our pictures. I can’t download it from my camera yet, but when I do, I’ll post it on the blog.

She was gracious, she was kind, and she was everything I thought she’d be! It was an utter pleasure to meet her in person!

I think what has most impressed me with my British acquaintances is how very very generous and hospitable they’ve been!

Both Ayesha Gamiet and Marjorie refused to let me pay for the bill.

It was very  sweet of them both. It really touched me!

I very much hope that I can return the favour when they come out to my stomping grounds one day!

And I wish her the best of luck in her Phd doctorate in art history!

Arrived on Sunday, it was dreary and foggy, and I wrote about how the cold seeped into my bones!

Traveler beware. The temperature might claim it’s 7 degree Celsius but it’s not like 7 degrees in Toronto!

Went to a posh store called John Lewis and bought a proper jacket with a hidden hood, very light, very expensive. It was 175 pounds (multiply that by an exchange rate of 1.6 dollars per pound and you’ll get the idea.  Haven’t done the math because I really don’t want to know!)

Monday I visited the Islamic school and they were, as expected, absolutely lovely!

And then Monday evening I went to meet Ayesha Gamiet for that traditional English tea at a place called the Richoux, in Picadilly.

Oh what an experience!

Raisin scones dripping with butter and jam that melt in your mouth! Dark rich fruitcake chock full of raisins, currants and marachino cherries! And the most delectable cakes, all washed down with chamomile tea!

And the conversation! Ayesha is this sweet young thing, reminded me so much of my daughters, who’s amazingly accomplished for her tender years. She’s finished her master’s in Visual Islamic and traditional Arts from the Prince’s school of traditional arts (by the way the ‘prince’ is none other than Prince Charles. He’s the patron of this school, in fact Ayesha’s going to be meeting with him today I think–there’s some kind of fancy event for the Turkish president who’s visiting on a state visit).

She has traveled to Turkey to apprentice for the ancient art under a master.

Turns out they hand down the secrets from generation to generation kind of like a pedigree.

She works at the Prince’s school teaching some of the stuff she’s learned.  I had asked her to bring her portfolio and I got to ‘ooh’ and ah’ ov er her delightful pictures. Her style reminds me of Demi, intricate and beautiful.

So much talent! That’s what I’m finding within the Muslim community over here!

The economic upheaval seems to have hit the U.K. particularly hard because the schools seem to be strapped! The Islamic schools even more so!

Yesterday I took a ride on the hop on hop off sightseeing bus service.  Got my first glimpse of London Bridge and the Tower of London. It was wonderful but turned out not to be such  a good idea to do that the day of the award. A lot of walking which left me tired, and then by the time I went to the award ceremony at the Globe I was quite exhausted.

And then it turned into the kind of cocktail party event (minus the cocktails) where you stand around socializing, nibbling tasties and drinking  fizzy lemonade and sparkling mineral water.

One of the guy’s doing a presentation at the beginning remarked about how remarkably clear-headed he was because of the lack of alcohol, and he said something like he could get used to that! LOL

Loverly but ooh my aching feet!

I didn’t win the Muslim Writer’s Award. An amazing talent named Na’ima bint Robert won.  First time she saw me she grabbed hold of me and hugged me hard!

I’d only ever corresponded with her by email, and even online she’s a delight! But in person she’s ever so much more! By the way, she wears niqab, just like my daughters.

She’s so remarkably talented Masha Allah! Has been singularly responsible for creating this fabulous magazine for women called Sisters! In terms of quality it’s right up there with Vogue for style and glamour and it’s completely Islamic!

Now here she’s gone and expanded her expertise into the children’s fiction genre. She was kind enough to give me a copy of her book and I can’t wait to start reading it!

Didn’t get back to the hotel till 10 pm, and luckily I had already mostly packed.

Got up early this morning and I’m on the train.

It’s surprising how quickly we left London behind. The sun has burned off the early morning mist and out my first class window I see fields of pasture and woods all brown leaves that haven’t fallen.

The folks in Bradford were kind enough to spring for first class, so I’m basking in luxury!

They even served breakfast.

I had ‘bloomer’ bread and when I asked the nice gentleman server what that was, he made a hand gesture saying it was ‘big’, like bread that had ‘bloomed’. Of course I had to try it.

It’s a bit on the roundish side, and it tastes like normal bread.

I also had something called bubble and squeak, it’s a kind of mashed potato mixed with bits of carrot and cabbage. It came in a little dome that was crisp on top and tender in the middle. Yum!

It hasn’t been all sunshine and roses though.

Yesterday on the sightseeing bus I met up with a rude man from Kuwait.

His wife was wearing niqab. I saw them take a seat at the front of the bus and I thought I’d join them and chat them up a bit.

The lady seemed friendly enough. She replied to my salams and smiled (I could tell by her eyes). But the man was very curt when I asked them where they wer from. “Kuwait.” He answered in a blunt way that didn’t allow for follow up discussion.

A relative of mine had worked in Kuwait. He had nothing kind to say about Kuwaitis, and now I understand why.

He parked himself on the outer side of the seats, shielding his wife from me it seemed. I tried not to get annoyed. I thought maybe they’re just scared being in a foreign country.

But honestly, I thought, no wonder westerners look at Muslims, and especially Muslim men, as a surly bunch!

No manners!

Contrast that with the warm and friendly manners of the British couples I met on that same sightseeing bus! Two middle-aged couples, one from the middle of England, one from Whales, were absolutely charming!

Well, better sign off now. I’m looking forward to Bradford and Coventry!

What an adventure!

(By the way, apparently Kings Cross Station, where I alighted on this train, is the train station that J.K. Rowling based Hogwarts train station on.)

Tonight on Oprah’s visionaries Will.i.am was talking.

If you’re not sure who he is, you’re not alone. I’d heard his name, but didn’t realize he’s one of the co-founders of the group Black-eyed Peas.

The first half of the show was just him spouting off about how tickled he was to be recording a song after-hours in the Louvre, and I get that.

Geez, I’ve been talking about that very thing the last few posts, about going places you’ve always heard of drinking in the moment of actually being there. For him it was the fact that the Louvre staff considered him important enough to actually break the rules on his behalf. I wonder if he realized that really it meant that he was big enough to give them free publicity.

Even a place like the Louvre isn’t averse to free marketing, I imagine.

In the whole show the one thing he said that most resonated with me was about his discipline in going into after-hour clubs AFTER the concerts and trying out new ‘beats’ on the dancers and seeing which ones they responded to.

Basically Will.i.am is the kind of musical artist that is all glitz and very little substance. He doesn’t have a message to his tunes, he just wants to provide some escape for people.

Nothing wrong with that.

One of the hadeeths of the Prophet (peace be upon him) talked about gladdening the hearts of the sorrowful as one of the best actions.

But what I found interesting was that after he’d played a concert to an audience of 35000 he found it absolutely necessary to go into some little backwater joint and play these beats. It was basically some kind of marketing research. And he talked about how most artists would never bother doing that, but he referred to it as keeping his pulse on the likes of the people.

He also talked about how every place he travels, he meets people who affect him deeply.

After coming back from Oklahoma, I can definitely agree with that!!!

I feel like it’s a way to give back to my community. The communities in Oklahoma City and Tulsa were ever so appreciative! Masha Allah.

And I got to meet some fantastic people who were kind enough to share some of their stories with me.

I ended up staying with an old acquaintance, a Pakistani lady who happened to grow up in the vicinity of my hometown about ten years after me.

She remembered me very well indeed!

Now she’s an optometrist and through her I was introduced to some amazing people!

So many ladies who’d converted or ‘reverted’ to Islam–it was really surprising to see so many converts within the Muslim community in Oklahoma city and Tulsa.

They make up a significant portion of the community.

There was one lady who’d been a former marine or soldier, not sure which and was now working in the Islamic school in an administrative capacity. I told her about my book Wanting Mor, how it’s about a girl who’s father abandons her.

She told me about being so poor when she was growing up because her father had left them. She lived in a house with waist high grass that often contained rattlesnakes and she had no shoes. Her mother would feed the children white bread with marshmallow spread on it, and because there wasn’t enough, she’d give it to them and watch them eat, but the girl and her brother would take off strips of bread and hide them in their pillowcases and when the mother got too weak, they’d feed them to her with sips of water.

Putting them on her tongue even though they were dry and a bit moldy.

And once again my stereotypes of white people being automatically privileged by birth was shattered.

Then I met the lady who was driving me a ways and we had a lovely conversation in the car. I asked her about her revert story and she was happy to tell me that she’d learned about Islam through her room mate, who’d been a pastor’s daughter and yet had a stack of Islamic books hidden at the back of her closet.

In Tulsa, I met other reverts, two charming ladies who told me their stories. I always ask how their families reacted to their reversion and one of them said, “Oh my mother didn’t speak to me for four years.” Then around that time she was diagnosed with cancer and her step father had asked her to nurse her because no one else in the family was available or would do it. He asked how much she wanted to be paid. He even offered to give her the house, but she said she didn’t want anything. She said of course she’d do it and then her and her husband would drive a hundred miles there and back and every day to care for her, and one time while they were praying in her room, she noticed her mother prostrating along with them on her hospital bed.

And when she was done praying she asked her mother if she’d been praying with them, and her mother said yes. She asked her mother why. And her mother replied, “Because for once I wanted my prayer to be answered.”

Her mother accepted Islam before she died.

And her story reminded me of the hadeeth of the Prophet (peace be upon him) where he said that some people would live their whole life according to Islam but would come within an arm’s length of the grave and what was written for them would occur, they would negate their faith and die in unbelief, and others would live their whole life in unbelief, come within an arm’s length of the grave and what was written for them would overtake them and they would die believers.

And the way they talked also reminded me of the time I was at an ISNA convention (Islamic Society of North America) in Washington D.C., with about 40,000 Muslims from all over America attending, and I’d walked through the food court and overheard two little old white ladies wearing hijab and abayas (long dresses) discussing the finer points of ijtihad in fine southern accents. (An Islamic term I wasn’t aware of.)

That’s Islam, American style!

How I’ll ever put any of that in a book, I do not know, but it’s like what Will.i.am said. It puts your pulse on the community.

On Saturday night at about 2 am I felt the 4.6 magnitude earthquake near Tulsa. They’ve had some after shocks since then, but really I must say my misconceptions shook more than anything else.

Writing doesn’t occur in a vacuum. You have to continue grow, fill the well from which you draw your inspiration.

And in the process of all that, I felt incredibly ignorant and humbled.

And the waving wheat can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain.

I’ve been humming the tune ever since I found out I’ve been invited to Tulsa and Oklahoma city to do some presentations.

Seems like the next few weeks will be very busy in terms of traveling!

I’m leaving early early on Thursday morning and I’m thinking, “Yikes!” got so much to do!

A Muslim community in Oklahoma has invited me and it should be quite an interesting trip.

I’ve finally finalized my trip arrangements for the Muslim Writer’s Award in England.

I’ll be leaving on Nov. 19th and coming back on Nov. 29th, insha Allah.

What has been enormously surprising are the offers of hospitality I’ve received!

I’m a member of a children’s literature listserve that functions mostly out of the UK and has some very prestigious academic and literary minds on it!

Two ladies on the listserve, hearing that I was coming, have offered me accommodation! It’s so touching!

What has been quite surprising is how difficult it’s been to get school bookings. One British author put it bluntly, “Schools have zero funds!”

So things are apparently very tough over there.

On another note, after watching tonight’s Oprah Life class, it was about a woman who suffered a terrible loss. She was a mother of four, had gone out early one morning for a jog, and while she was gone her ex-husband had come to the house and killed all four of their children, and then himself.

Of course I cried while listening to her tell her story.

Oprah talked about why she does shows like this. She said that it was because we can often learn things from people who’ve gone through such terrible trials. She tried never to be voyeuristic in her approach. If the emotions were too intense and personal she’d ask the cameramen to stop shooting.

Then Oprah said something I really disagree with.

She said that what happened to the woman was ‘the worst thing that could possibly happen’.

If only death were the worst thing that could happen!

It just goes to show how actually sheltered Oprah and most westerners fundamentally are.

It’s funny how you can learn things from your characters. James Cameron talked about how he often told stories to learn about things.

One of the nicest compliments I ever got about my writing was that it seemed that I wrote to discover things! Linda Sue Park told me that many years ago, and I still cherish those kind words today.

That’s precisely why I write stories. If there’s nothing for me to learn in the writing of it, I mean why bother?

Any story requires a great deal of investment of time and energy. I want a payoff as much as the reader does. And I want the journey to be worthwhile.

Nowhere has that been more true than with my book Wanting Mor.

One of the biggest things I learned from Jameela in Wanting Mor happens to be not to take things for granted.

We in the west take practically everything for granted.

We think the natural order of the world is one of entitlement.

We’re entitled to a ‘childhood’. It’s enshrined in the human rights code for goodness sakes!

We get appalled at places with child labour! Children have the right to be nourished and taken care of and educated and cherished.

Why?

Because children in the west have these rights?

Because we are empathetic and we naively want what is good for our own children to apply to children all over the world?

And yet we support regimes in direct and not so direct ways that enable child exploitation all over the world.

When I was reading some of the reviews on Goodreads.com for Wanting Mor I was really struck by all the comments about how the stepmother works Jameela like a slave. And because of this, many people likened the book to a cinderella story.

And yet in the story Jameela never actually minds working that hard. Why should she? In fact there are times when she seeks out hard work, and she does this to endear herself to people, especially the other girls in the orphanage with the idea that if you can’t be beautiful you should at least be good, people will appreciate that.

And Jameela tries to be good by being helpful and working hard.

But a lot of people don’t seem to understand what Jameela’s underlying supposition really is.

It’s not so much that she’s ‘selfless’.

It’s that she wants to carve a place into the social hierarchy. Ever since her mother died, her place is in no way guarranteed! She works so hard in order to make herself indispensible, wanted.

That doesn’t sound that noble does it?

And yet she is noble.

She is unbelievably ‘good’.

And while I was writing Wanting Mor  I was astounded at her attitude, because she really doesn’t take a single thing in her life for granted except for one thing. She takes for granted that her father will not abandon her and in that she’s disappointed.

Afghanistan is full of war and bloodshed and carnage.

In fact much of the world is filled with chaos and disorder.

Without peace, middle class morality cannot thrive. Without stability, family life cannot thrive.

People come home to find their families slaughtered far too often!

Not necessarily after they’ve gone for an early morning jog through their middle class neighborhood, and not often as a result of an ex-husband’s psychotic actions, but the end result is the same!

And finding your family dead like that isn’t even the worst thing that can happen!

It can always be worse!

I would suggest that knowing they were tortured or violated before they were killed would be worse than just knowing they’d been killed.

At the risk of being macabre, there an infinite variety of things that can be worse than any scenario that happens to us.

Basically it can ALWAYS be worse!

Women all over the world have to pick themselves up for the sake of their surviving kids and keep on keeping on.

But then they don’t live with the expectation that it’s not supposed to be like that. But that doesn’ t mean their grief is any less.

I felt myself getting really annoyed at the woman who’d lost her children and was now talking about how she kept herself from committing suicide.

If her children were alive to see her in that state, they’d shake her! Why should she destroy her life just because they’d lost theirs?

That’s what they would tell her. I’m sure of it!

Sometimes I find the ‘aha’ moments that Oprah comes up with are actually pretty shallow. But then I guess I’m coming at it from a completely different perspective.

Honestly, I’ll go most of the day completely unaware that I wear hijab, have brown skin, and otherwise look any different from anyone else and then suddenly something will bring me up short.

I’ll see myself reflected in a shop window or someone will say something  like acknowledging how ‘tolerant’ they are to have me as a friend, or to overlook my differences, and I frown and think, “Oh yeah. I AM different.”

Today, I got back to the gym. I’ve been very naughty. Eating way too much and excercising way too little, and I thought I should reverse the trend before things get out of control.

One of the ladies at the gym wanted to do some outreach with the Muslim communty down the road (there’s a mosque on the way home) and she asked me if I’d go in there with her.

“Why? Honestly you’ll be fine.” I told her.

“Yeah, but I’d still like someone with me. I’m afraid I might offend someone.”

“That mosque does outreach all the time. They’re not going to treat you bad in any way.”

“But I’ve heard people tell me… oh the way the men treat the women…”

I wondered what the heck she thought would happen!

Yes, some Muslim men can be misogynistic, but really!

But then I thought, “What if I was going into a synagogue? Yeah, it would be nice to have someone from the community along.” Although honestly, I’d just go in by myself if I had to.

She wanted to have a breast cancer awareness program for the women at the mosque, and with my older sister having died of breast cancer, I said okay, I’d escort her in there.

I thought it shouldn’t take too long.

While we were climbing up the stairs to the second level where the office was, she said, “Oh I feel so self-conscious. Should I be wearing a head cover or something?”

Why? I wondered. She’s not Muslim. But I thought saying that might be too abrupt, so I just told her not to worry about it.

We ended up speaking to a bearded gent who was perfectly amiable.

No drooling, no ogling, nothing to be concerned about at all–which is precisely what I expected–but what she did not.

On the way back to the car, I wanted to just get going. I still had to get some groceries and I was hungry, but we spent some time talking in the parking lot.

She saying how she’d driven past the mosque so many times–afraid of ever going in.

And part of me was thinking, “Yeah, yeah, I guess that’s understandable.”

And she kept talking about movies she’d seen about this woman who’d been stoned to death, and yada yada yada. And I thought, “I should be caring about what she thinks but honestly, I just wanted to get home and get some work done.”

Gosh, in the past, I would have talked her ear off, telling her we really weren’t as bad as the stereotypes portrayed us. The guy in the office was nice enough to give her some literature. A book about human rights in Islam (which she’d expressed an interest in) and a book called Towards Understanding Islam, which is an old standby, and another book that I had read and found quite amazing, which lists all the scientificly accurate statements made in the Quran.

In the parking lot she was in a very talkative mood. She kept saying how she felt so moved, like she’d had an epiphany. She told me she’d always been curious about the Islamic faith, and it was like her eyes were opened.

Inside my head a voice was yelling, “C’mon Rukhsana, don’t be so apathetic. You’ve got a good thing. Share it! Care!” And I told it, “Okay, okay.”

And I bothered to tell her some of the observations I’d made, that the movies that do well in mainstream society only reinforce stereotypes about Muslims. Anything that portrays us in a good light doesn’t get much air time.

She said something like, “Oh but you should be telling more stories about yourselves.”

And I said, “I am.”

“But I haven’t heard of any new stories that you’ve done.”

So I told her about Wanting Mor. Then she asked to read it.

And I hesitated, because if she read the book I gave her, it might look used and I wouldn’t be able to sell it. Then I thought, “Oh what the heck. Maybe it will help her.”

So I lent her a copy.

I might even give it to her.

I guess I’ve been dealing with people’s ‘epiphanies’ for too long.

And while they’re opening their eyes to the beauty of Islam, realizing that we just might not be as barbaric as they thought we were, I’ve taken it for granted that they don’t and won’t understand. And honestly, who the heck cares? As long as I can pray the way I want, and dress the way I want, and eat the way I want and just live the way I want; as long as they’re not carrying torches and hunting us down with pitchforks; and as long as they’re minding their business and letting us mind ours, it’s all hunky dory!

I’m really not normally this callous.

She’s a nice enough lady. She’s always treated me well.

But I’d done a presentation that morning and had popped into the gym on my way home. I wasn’t in any kind of ‘information’ mode.

I was in a ‘get-home-and-have-a-peanut-butter-sandwich-before-I-keel-over’ mode.

Oh well.

It was a moment I needed to be patient, so I grit my teeth and did my best.

One brilliant writer said two things that are very true.

He said Islam is the most hated religion on earth.

It is also the fastest growing.

Think about it.

Or not.

It’s really up to you.

My first thought was, “I must have done something right!” And my second thought was, “What if this person is right about me?”

I have seen too many people delude themselves. These are people who construct elaborate narratives about themselves where they’re misunderstood victims instead of the jerks they really are. These people surround themselves with people who prop up this alternative reality and anyone who tries to burst the delusion bubble gets backlisted–but good!

I’ve seen too many otherwise intelligent people do this–to ever feel comfortable that I’m not doing that myself. So my first reaction on getting an insult is to second guess myself and wonder if there’s any truth in it.

Sometimes there is. Whereupon I force myself to swallow some humble pie and make amends.

When there is no truth in the insult then I chalk it up to a problem with the hater that has nothing to do with me.

And the reason why I thought I must be doing something right is that anyone who is making an impact in any way, will attract their share of haters.

There’s a line in L.M. Montgomery’s The Blue Castle, where the heroine Valancy Sterling is taking stock of her 29 years of living thinking what a pathetic creature she was, she didn’t even have one enemy!

It seems to be the nature of artists that they remember the slings and barbs long after they’ve forgotten the praise!

Perhaps it’s because within every artist there is an inner critic and the slings and barbs echo the snarly comments of the critic, so are more easy to hang on to.

But I received a very nice email from a lady I met at the SCBWI conference. She reviewed Big Red Lollipop and wanted to share it with me. You can read what she had to say here: http://childrensbooksheal.com/2011/09/07/big-red-lollipop/

It’s so nice to read such heart felt comments about the impact your book has had on others!

I got this email at a time when I felt rather low, so it was welcome indeed!

Then yesterday I got ready and went to Ottawa to attend an event that was organized by a booking agency I’m working for up there called MASC. http://www.masconline.ca/www.masconline.ca/RukhsanaKhanEng.html

They called it a ‘retreat’ but it was really just a day of workshops. They looked interesting. The first was about grant application writing and the second was about creating promotional vidoes.

All MASC artists were encouraged to attend. Being from out of town I wasn’t obligated but the topics looked interesting and I thought I might get something out of it.

Also it was neat how MASC had re-hired me kind of. About ten years ago, when I first started storytelling I was on their roster for a couple of years, but somehow they didn’t ask me back. About seven years went by and one of the ladies in charge saw me at an Arts Smarts event, and they decided to invite me back. As an out of towner they’ll try to concentrate all my bookings in a week in April to make it worth my while.

I drove up yesterday and the weather was simply gorgeous!

The sky was that really deep ultramarine blue you really only get in the fall (ultramarine is a colour of Laurentian pencil crayon that is a deep intense blue!). It’s a blue that is completely free of the haze of humidity!

The trees were beginning to turn! The sumacs that lined Highway 7 (transCanada highway) showed brilliant red edges and there was a grove that I passed that I swear were almost purplish in hue!

I’ve never seen purple fall leaves!

And oh the cottonwoods! When the wind blew you could see the bright white of the under leaves!

And the oddest thing was the monarch butterflies that fluttered across the highway.

I noticed them first on the 401 of all places!

Monarch butterflies dodging eighteen-wheel trucks who must be on their yearly migration to Mexico!

After a while I started looking for them and like the inukshuks I counted on the way to Sudbury and Espanola back in March and April, I started counting Monarch butterflies zigzagging from my left to right (I was driving east) heading south for the winter.

I counted a total of twenty Monarch butterflies–including a poor chap that hadn’t dodged artfully and was stuck to the yellow line in the middle of Highway 37 just outside Tweed.

The milkweed they had probably spent the summer feasting on was also turning golden colours at the side of the road, their pods curled back  having burst open.

I can’t really say the scenery was spectacular. I mean I’ve driven across Canada and southern Ontario farmland is nothing compared to the vast beauty out there, and yet the rural charm of tawny autumn colours does my spirit good.

Going to this retreat meant spending my own money on this trip, but hubby encouraged me and now I’m really glad I did.

The grant writing workshop turned out to be too specific towards artists in the city of Ottawa, so I went to the parallel session on social media instead.

I had initially passed on the social media session because I’d already been to sessions on it, but this one was different! Holly Wagg really made social media understandable!

And having seen John Green’s video blog, I found out how I could do that too. It’s actually not that hard (although I’m saying that without having even attempted the learning curve!).

MASC received some funding to make a one minute promotional video for each of their sixty artists so I learned about that as well.

Being in Ottawa, so close to Quebec (it’s on the other side of the Ottawa river), there were a LOT of Francophone artists at the retreat.

I wore my purplish-lavendar coloured shalwar kameez suit. It’s a little darker purple than a Canadian ten dollar bill. It’s a very simple suit that I thought would agree with my colouring. And I picked up a brightly coloured Italian scarf, that had the same purple as well as ultramarine blue and black in it, as a hijab to go with it.  

It was one of the suits I wore in L.A. that I got so complimented on. Today was no different.

While walking into the venue for the workshops, a lady told me how very  nice I looked!

But it was when I got inside that a Francophone lady started speaking in French, gesticulating at my hijab and my suit, smiling and speaking quickly, saying ‘beau’ and ‘belle voile’. I know enough elementary French to realize she was also complimenting me.

Then she went on saying stuff I didn’t understand and eventually explaining in broken English that she was commenting on how nice I looked and wondering why all Muslim women couldn’t dress as attractively. Why would they wear such ugly clothes to cover themselves up? Browns and blacks and things that didn’t match? Why couldn’t they do what I did so they looked nice?

I was still smiling, kind of, but not as widely.

I couldn’t help wondering what she’d think of my daughters who do wear the ‘ugly black’ stuff.

For an instant I thought of trying to explain it to her. That those women, like my daughters, deliberately wore the drab colours because they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

They often had the bright colours on underneath, for private eyes. Or maybe they didn’t match up because they were poor and couldn’t afford it.

I wear the clothes I do because I figured, hey, I’m going to stick out anyway, I might as well wear what I like–and I like bright pretty colours. (and I can afford them)

But I knew that it would destroy the moment. She meant her remark in all kindness, and that was how I should accept it, period.

But it was a little sad.

On another note I did meet a Native who is Ottawa’s official town crier!

I didn’t even know the position of town crier still existed!

Apparently they have international conferences and competitions and such.

In his job (that he’d held for thirty years) he’d announced the Queen and the Pope!

His name is Daniel Richer and check out his website! http://www.danielricher.com/

The organizers called upon his services to get the group of us to stop chatting and start the workshopping.

He had a booming voice that was quite pleasant even in the louder register!

All in all a fascinating day!

Driving back home after the workshops–  I didn’t see one Monarch butterfly! Not even the one stuck to the middle of Hwy 37! And the weather had turned chilly.