Every once in a while, when I’m flicking channels, I come across some documentary that catches my eye.

I’ve always been an extremely curious person. I learn all kinds of stuff, just because it catches my fancy.

A few days ago I clicked on a BBC story about scientists using pressure pads to determine how rhinos feet could support their heavy bulk–not because I’ll ever have a use for it in a story–although you never can tell–but just because I found it curious.

Anyway, I caught this documentary on Scott and Amundsen on some educational channel and since I’ve always been fascinated by the Arctic and the Antarctic, I decided to watch it.

Isn’t it funny? Today happens to be the 100th anniversary of the day Scott arrived at the South Pole. Just found that out while I checked his wikipedia page.

Honest, I didn’t plan that.

Anyway, the story goes that Scott wanted some fame and glory and decided to launch this expedition to the South Pole, but he found the idea of using dogs kind of old-fashioned or something. He wanted to use ponies to pull sledges to the South Pole and he also wanted to get machinery so they could ride their in comfort–with the dogs.

When he got to Antarctica, while they were unloading the machines, one of them fell through the ice–a  bad omen.

Then the extreme cold caused them to malfunction.

The ponies weren’t used to the cold and for a number of reasons the preparations for the ‘Discovery expedition’ were not going according to plan. The main deficiency was where they located a crucial supply point, called ‘one ton depot’ was planted 35 miles north of where it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be at 80 degrees south. But for that single failure, you’ll see that Scott and his men probably would have survived the return journey. 

So Scott gets to the South Pole only to discover that Amundsen, using a team of dogs, very efficiently, and without fuss, got to the South Pole before him and returned safe and sound.

Then Scott and his fellows turn around and start the long 800 mile slog back. Starving and ill equipt, they nevertheless make it to within eleven miles of one ton depot when they’re forced to wait out a raging blizzard for nine days during which they perished. If they’d put one ton depot where it was supposed to be, they would have reached it 24 miles ago.

Scott and the others are buried in the tent in which he died which in turn has become encased in the Ross ice shelf and with the nature of glacial ice being fluid, it’s slowly inching its way towards the antarctic ocean and one day the whole thing will break off and plunge into the sea.

The British, on the other hand, kind of sneered at Amundsen’s victory. They thought it was ‘unsporting’ and one lord Curzon even raised a glass and saluted the dogs that carried him.

But who is the famous one? Who’s the one they made a movie of? Not Amundsen, the winner, but Scott the silly loser.

The Brits turned Scott into this amazing hero. They showered money on the widows of the five men who perished. He was knighted and all that.

I find it simply fascinating.

And it was interesting, a while ago, when I was in Denmark and I got a chance to get to know Barbara Reid better, we had a bit of a discussion about this very topic.

Barbara Reid is an amazing talent! She does the most beautiful children’s book illustration with plasticene!

Her latest book at the time was called Perfect Snow and she said how she’d been so touched by the story of Scott that she’d named her protagonist none other than Scott.

I laughed but she pointed out to the death of Oates, one of Scott’s companions who knew he was dying and knew he was slowing the others down, he said to the others, “I am just going outside and may be some time.”

“Oh brother!” I told Barbara, although deep down I had to admit it was rather stoic and even a bit romantic and I found that irritating.

But still! Why would Amundsen be penalized for being efficient?

Why did the Brits, and it seems the world, cling to Scott’s story as being more intriguing?

I really don’t get it.

I’m thinking that it has to do with the prestige of the British at the time of this event. This was Victorian England and the Brits boasted that the sun did not set on the British empire.

But there’s something to be learned from this. Even when a story has a negative outcome–or perhaps especially when a story has a negative outcome–it can be spun (and let’s not kid ourselves, there’s no better word for what the Brits did with Scott’s epic failure) into a compelling yarn.

Which reminds me of the movie Moneyball.  It’s quite a compelling story, even though it has a lot of information in it.

It’s a little like The Social Network in that regard, that movie about Mark Zuckerberg and the founding of Facebook.

What surprised me about Moneyball was how unrecognizable Brad Pitt was in it. I don’t mean you couldn’t tell it was Brad Pitt, but rather that he didn’t act like Brad Pitt, he acted like this character and he did such a thorough job, you forgot you were watching Brad Pitt and you really were emersed in the story of this character.

Without giving anything away, it’s worth looking at the ending of Moneyball and examining how they couched what really happened in such a way as to make a compelling story.

Maybe there’s a caveat that should be added to the old saying that history is written by the victors.

Maybe we should add that history is also written by those who tell the best tale.

It was interesting.

Farah and Edward had gone up to Oxford to meet some friends of theirs on Saturday, and when I got back, they asked me, quite tentatively, what did I think of Stonehenge.

I told them honestly that it wasn’t as impressive as I’d imagined it to be.

Then they asked me something I thought was a bit odd. They said, “Was it worth it?”

I’d spent 25 pounds to get there and back and that’s actually a good deal of money in England.

The dinner at the Sri Lankan restaurant for the four of us, for instance, had cost 33 pounds!

I answered without hesitation, “Yes! It was definitely worth it.”

It was worth it because it made me realize that like I touched on briefly in my last post, so much of Stonehenge and really the whole persona of British atmosphere and charm is tied to image and story.

I’ve got a theory, and that is those who are best at telling their stories, will infuse their culture and heritage with a significance that can transcend ethnic barriers.

Why else would an obscure dialect spoken by a community on a remote island (I’m referring to English) be able to become practically the universal language that the world does most of its business in.

If lingual dominance was solely based on technology then the Asian countries would have inspired such ‘pilgrimages’.

There are plenty of people who visit the Asian countries but it’s not the same as the hordes that visit England.

Stonehenge was always so fascinating to me mainly because it was so fascinating to the British. And they had infected me with some of their enthusiasm for the place.

But perhaps because I’ve seen so many other places in the world, where the sights are perhaps not quite so ancient, but a great deal more breathtaking, I was able to view Stonehenge with a bit of a jaded eye.

And in doing so, it wasn’t necessarily the physical being there that was so interesting, it was the ambivalence of my feelings that was interesting.

Mind you the sheep grazing just beyond the roped-in barriers didn’t help.

They really put these toppled over saracen stones into perspective.

And even though Stonehenge is probably as old as the pyramids, and even though it must indeed have been a Herculean feat to bring them and establish them there, there was something rather ‘meh’ about it all.

Kind of like how I felt when I gazed at the Sistine chapel and saw that the whole famous picture of “God” and “Adam” that is so famous around the world, is only one small panel in a very busy composition!

The whole array of frescoes depicting Biblical scenes is a bit much. You can’t appreciate one panel before the images of another draw  your eye away and the end result is something a bit ‘much’. So that when that gentleman from New York asked me in that Italian restaurant if the Sistine chapel wasn’t just the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, it was easy for me to answer, “Well, actually, no.”

With Stonehenge it was quite the opposite. Your eyes keep drawing inward to the tumbled stones trying to make some kind of sense of them.

It’s like a puzzle of ‘pick up sticks’, or actually ‘pick up boulders’. And yes you wonder about the barrows and the standing stones etc. but part of you is also thinking, ‘so what?’.

The biggest thing I got from it was thinking that the engineering that got these prehistoric people to be able to accomplish bringing these gigantic pillars of rock thirty miles from the quarry they’d been hewn within, and then setting them in place, including lifting the lintels and aligning their grooves on top of the knobs they’d carved in the standing stones so they wouldn’t move–is remarkable, and yet despite being able to do that, where have they gone? What was their point?

They’re lost in time. The people who engineered this didn’t even leave behind an explanation as to what it all signifies. And it reminds me of that phrase in the Quran where God tells man to go travel the world and see the remains of all the amazing people who have come before us. How despite their greatness, they perished into obscurity.

And it reminds me of how transient our own lives are and how even if we think we’re building this everlasting legacy–we’re not.

All man made things will crumble to ruin in time. All greatness will diminish.

I couldn’t sum up all these things when I spoke to Farah and Edward, but I was kind of thinking them. Coming to these conclusions over the last few days so that tonight I can actually articulate my impressions. But having done so I don’t think I would have felt comfortable saying this to Farah and Edward. I’d worry they might be offended.

It’s interesting though because Edward himself said that he didn’t think Stonehenge was as impressive as this bigger stone circle at Avesbury or Amesbury, I’m not sure which. That stone circle is less obviously a henge because it’s so large a circle that it surrounds the whole town. Plus the stones that comprise it are smaller. But in terms of scope, it’s larger.

On Sunday (was it really only two days ago???) they invited me to lunch in Brick Lane which is apparently the best place to get a good curry.

I wore this lawn green suit I have with a patterned scarf and a pretty green rhinestone pin in the shape of a flower that matches perfectly.

Previously Farah had only seen me in two black outfits of mine. Now she saw me in green and her face lit up when I came down for breakfast. She complimented me on my clothes and then said that now she’d have to go change because her jeans simply wouldn’t do! LOL.

On the way there we passed by White Chapel. Yes, that White Chapel–of Jack the Ripper fame! As soon as Farah said the words ‘White Chapel’ I felt a delicious thrill run down my spine.

We were actually going to be going there?

I hadn’t sought it out! In fact I had no intention of going to White Chapel for the very reason that I thought it would be too much like a ‘pilgrimage’.

We were on the 67 bus going down St. Ann’s Road when Farah was telling me that she had a friend who used to give walking tours of where the murders of the six prostitutes (the first serial murders in the western world) had happened so long ago.

I asked her why her friend had stopped giving the walking tours.

Farah said, “Because of that very look on your face!”

I’m sure I was wearing the most inappropriate expression of eager anticipation and fascination!

I couldn’t help laughing.

She added, “It is a place where six women were brutally murdered!”

 ”Of course!” I said. “I know, but it’s just so very infamous! You don’t understand we grew up all our lives hearing stories about Jack the Ripper, wondering who’d done it.” I didn’t mention there had even been a very interesting Star Trek episode on it! That was actually the first time I think I’d heard about the events.

They’ve also been re-enacted and been the speculation of how many movies and plays!

So again it goes back to being able to tell a fascinating story.

We went down a particular alley that looked very benign and unremarkable, when Edward said, “This is one of the spots where one of the ladies was killed.”

And for an instant–before I could control myself–I’m sure that eager look came over my face again! Then I composed myself, snapped a few pictures, and tried to forget it.

But really, there’s something even provocative of the phrase ‘Jack the Ripper’. It’s got onomatopoeia in it. Ripper sounds like it’s ripping, doesn’t it?

What was sad however, was that sometime after we finished lunch at the restaurant on Brick Lane, and sometime before we left the Children’s museum I lost that pretty green rhinestone flower pin of mine!

Oh what a shame! I loved that pin! And it matched so beautifully.

But considering that’s about the worst thing that happened during the entire 9 day trip–it really wasn’t the end of the world!

Yesterday morning I visited an Islamic school and did two presentations for these groups of extremely appreciative children and teachers!

What lovely people! It was a pleasure to meet such dedicated staff!

It gives me hope for the Muslim community in England!

They asked me to pray for them when I was leaving and I asked them to pray for me too!

p.s. It turned out that I’d actually ended up bringing Farah and Edward’s cat Potchka (forgot the ‘k’ when I spelled it last) a present too. She just loved the white ribbon I’d used to tie up the gifts! And the gift I gave Edward was a box of chocolate mints! Perfect too because although, like Farah, he’s extremely sensitive to gluten, he can actually have dairy, and he liked them very much! So on the gift score I was pretty much 3 for 3!)

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.

I’ve read this phrase in the Quran a number of times and it’s funny but I always thought it only referred to the oppressed and downtrodden.

But I attended a lecture a while back and a scholar made a good point. He said that no, this phrase applies to both a privileged status and a downtrodden one. Basically it also applies to people who are doing well–that God will not cause them to decline until they change what is in themselves–ie abandon the good qualities that made them successful in the first place.

The older I get the more truth I see in this phrase.

When I was younger, how the sympathy poured out of me when I saw people living in horrible conditions– until I got to know them and saw how sometimes they contributed to their own situation.

I used to babysit for a lady who claimed that her husband abused her. She had left him and was staying in a shelter but still going to work.

She nodded absently while I urged her to cut off all contact with her husband, for the sake of her children. 

But she wanted to reconcile.

She laid out her terms.

He agreed to none of them.

She went back to him anyways.

And I thought to myself that she’s either stupid, or I am in believing it was as bad as she said.

Oprah never talks openly about the people she’s helped that have disappointed her.

But I remember one show where she decided to give about three very poor families a leg up for a few months.

One lady, I think she was from Appalachia, I just remember that she was white, very skinny and had horrible teeth. She was in a desperate situation because her husband had become injured and couldn’t work and she was going to school to increase her job skills. At the end of the time period of help–she was remarkably better off!

But there was another lady who was a single mom, and used the money to buy stuff she hadn’t been able to afford. At one point her daughter said, “Can we get that?” or something, and she answered, “Of course dear, we’re not poor any more.” We never saw what happened to her at the end of the period of help!

The first lady was keen on changing her condition by changing what was in herself, the second lady accepted the handout and took it for granted, not realizing that it was a limited time offer, and if she didn’t change, then she’d be no better off.

And that’s just an economic example.

I know a lot of people reminisce about how much better things were when they were growing up. And I know I’m going to sound like a real geezer saying that, yes, in many ways things were better when I was growing up.

Even if you only look at the commercials we had back then!

They were full of ‘scientific’ sounding comparisons that ‘proved’ that Detergent A was better than Detergent B. Think about what that says about the people the commercial is targetting their sales pitch at.

News was a somber affair. It was meant to contain gravitas, not looney side piece human interest stories!

Even when I look at the creative writing journal I kept when I was in grade eight and thirteen years old, my vocabulary was quite impressive! Kids just don’t write like that any more!

Oh of course we had our vulgarities! But they weren’t ‘mainstream’. Mainstream society kept a level of sophistication and a civilised demeanor.

And governments paid their bills, living within their means!

That’s all gone. 

There is no question that God bestowed His favour on western countries at the time. He granted them prosperity and took it away from Muslim countries!

He gave western countries rulers who tried to be just and rule their people well, and He allowed dictators to take control of Muslim lands.

The Prophet (peace be upon him) said that the ruler of a people is a reflection of the people. 

And boy was he right!

For a corrupt ruler to gain control over a people, he has to have the support of a number of people.  And corruption is rampant in Muslim countries and African countries.

But I wonder if that isn’t changing with the Arab spring.

Say what you want about Hezbollah and goodness knows I’m no fan, but when the Lebanon war was finished their people were out there writing cheques to compensate people for the destruction of their property and help them rebuild!

Folks in America, after Katrina, noticed it and wondered why FEMA couldn’t be more efficient. How many billions of dollars were spent on New Orleans???

Where did it all go???

If the government had done the same, given each household a lump sum to use towards rebuilding, they would have saved a ton of money and New Orleans would have been rebuilt much faster–I believe!

I remember how instead they put the poor and homeless up in fancy hotels for a time period and I screamed at my T.V. set, “You idiots! Why don’t you give that money you’d spend on the Crowne Plaza, to the people living there???” And cynical me, I thought the guy in charge of the funds must know the guy in charge of the hotels. They’re just divvying up a piece of the pie!

And even the news media commented on the corruption of the authorities as to how the money was spent.

In the past, Canada was always known for being a fair and balanced society. Championing human rights all over the globe. It was one of the things I was most proud of, being Canadian.

But with our new leader, Steven Harper, boy have we taken many steps backward! Recently our government was only one of five in the world that refused to condemn the Israeli government’s settlement expansion. The other four countries were the U.S. (no surprise) and a few little countries in the South Pacific.

It does not bode well for America or Canada.

As the Arabs are continuing their spring uprising, it seems to me that the west is sinking the other way.

Perhaps God is finally changing the condition of the Arab people because they are changing something within themselves.

It might be too soon to say.

I have very little hope for Pakistan–my land of birth!

They’re ruled by a crook–Zardari, husband of the late Benazir Bhutto–another crook, both of whom have syphoned untold amounts of wealth from Pakistan into off-shore bank accounts.

Zardari doesn’t give a hang about the people suffering under his rule, and as sorry as I feel for them, nothing will change until the people change what is in themselves.

But yesterday I had my second glimmer of hope. (the first was that wonderful community in Oklahoma!)

I was invited to another Muslim gig.

This was a Muslim school in Mississauga where they asked me to come in and do a presentation for the kindergarten to grade two’s.

And there was some mention about a session for the women.

Sure, sure, I said. I’ll do that one for free, thinking I’d be talking to a handful of housewives interested in promoting literacy in their kids.

Um…no.

There were about a hundred and fifty women, many of them Pakistani, and others who were taking in the session on line!!!

And they were all wearing hijab (or niqab) and intent on LEARNING!!!! Islam, and other knowledge too!

I have never been to an Islamic school where they were as intent on teaching the MOTHERS as they were on teaching the kids!

Wow!

These were no ignorant immigrant women! These were highly refined, super motivated seekers of knowledge!

Masha Allah!

They put their money where their mouths were and supported this institution!

And the institution itself was not run down, but aesthetically beautiful and more importantly it was WELL-ORGANIZED!

The programs were punctual!

Oh, it was NOT your typical Islamic school, not by a long shot!

It makes my heart sing to see people so dedicated to learning, to changing the next generation for the better!

And when I got up to talk, indeed giving them tips on how to instill a love of learning in their kids and a joy of reading, these women soaked up every word!

And some of them even emailed me afterwards telling me how inspiring they’d found my little talk. (One lady had viewed it online from Columbo, Sri Lanka! I couldn’t help wondering what time in the middle of the night she’d stayed up to do so!)

May this be the beginning of God changing the condition of Muslims–because it seems to me that many Muslims are definitely changing what’s within themselves!

This seems to happen every Ramadan and the problem with that is that it really makes it hard to take anything else, world squabbles over a debt crisis, and attending an impending SCBWI convention, very seriously.

In the grand scheme of things, they really don’t matter now do they?

Even while I keep praying for all the victims of the horrible things happening: the gunning down of civilians in Syria and Libya; the famine in Somalia and the oppression of Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank, it cannot completely destroy that feeling of serenity.

Because with the blanket of serenity has come the assurance that those who die will go on to a better place, God is most merciful. And we have the opportunity to help those who are suffering by sharing some of the bounty that God has bestowed upon us.

At no time during the year do I believe this more than in Ramadan.

So many times I think, if there were no assurances of a life hereafter, where all injustices will be addressed and all oppression will be punished–I would not be able to take all the suffering in the world.

And along with that, I believe that everything happens for a reason, though we may not be able to see it.

It’s all part of God’s larger plan, and we have to be patient.

Back when we were renovating the kitchen and the bathroom, and I was lifting up old linoleum tiles so that the contractor could lay the ceramic, I was using a heat gun.

I was pretty careful, but in the process the edge of my little finger touched the hot nozzle, and before I could think to pull it away, I suffered a burn.

Of course my first thought was how foolish and clumsy I’d been. (Of course it’s nowhere near the scale of what’s going on all over the world I’m not even trying to compare them, but it was pretty darn painful. And till it scabbed over and began to heal it was pretty painful.)

My second thought was that perhaps this little bit of suffering would help expiate some of my sins–sins I might not even have realized I’d committed.

Because part of Islamic beliefs is that for a believer, every difficulty, even something as small as a heat gun burn or a paper cut, will expiate their sins.

So those believers suffering major catastrophes will have most if not all of their bad deeds wiped out.

For some people who do good in this world but do not believe in God or the hereafter, they will be rewarded with good in this world, and for those whose bulk of reward will be in the hereafter, then things like cuts and burns they get in this life will help expiate their sins so that they will be free in the hereafter.

There were two superpowers at the time of the Prophet (peace be upon him): the Persians and the Romans. And when the early Muslims defeated the first of them, the Persians, and they saw the treasure palaces of the Chosroe II, they wept because they had never seen such wealth and they were afraid that they were obtaining their reward in this life.

When I got that nasty burn, and it started to blister and sting, I sent up a little dua (prayer) right then, to let it be an expiation for any sins that I’ve committed knowingly or unknowingly.

I want to send a donation to the drought victims in Somalia and Kenya even as I pray they get rain.

And I send a prayer out to all those who read these words, may God make this a month of blessing and peace for all of us.

And now, I really should get back to preparing for that SCBWI conference! Because even though my heart’s not into it, my brain’s telling me it’s a pretty big deal.

Mr. Regan, our very handsome history teacher, let us choose different topics to present to the class, and one of the topics was Dr. Norman Bethune.

I didn’t pick that one. I picked something about the Palestinian/Israeli situation, but I did recall one thing the kid who picked Bethune said.

He said that Bethune was more revered in China than he was in Canada, even though Bethune was Canadian.

I thought that was very interesting.

This morning we went on a mini getaway. We left at 8 am (on a Sunday!!! Hubby’s a morning person!) and drove north to catch a cruise in Gravenhurst.

We’ve been on pretty much every cruise within a five hour drive’s radius of home. I really liked the Gravenhurst cruise, it’s quite scenic, less cottages and more greenery.

We got there and the ship was moored at the dock. A good sign!

But the parking lot was empty. A bad sign!

When I asked the lady at the counter when the next cruise was, she said Tuesday! The ship didn’t start cruising till Tuesday!

Grrr!

It was too late to go to another place and catch a cruise so we decided to just explore the surroundings of Gravenhurst.

We’d passed a sign that said the Memorial home of Dr. Norman Bethune and I talked hubby and son into going.

Dr. Norman Bethune was born in a tiny little Victorian house down the street from Knox Presbyterian church where his father was a minister.

In the ’70′s the city acquired the house and went about the task of refurbishing it in the style it would have been in the 1890′s when he was born.

He had such an interesting history.

For one thing he graduated from the same university I’ve attended: University of Toronto. And he graduated in the same year as Dr. Banting, the Canadian who invented penicillin.

He became a doctor and then contracted tuberculosis at 26. Then he went to Montreal and made huge strides in thoracic surgery. He said he was destined for greatness and he was going to do something great before he died.

Unlike most of the doctors of his age, he shunned high society and was a strong proponent of universal health care. He said that health care was a basic need (I’m paraphrasing) like bread but doctors were selling it like jewels.

He went to Spain during the war and set up mobile blood transfusion clinics. He invented medical apparatus that’s still in use today!

And finally he went to China during the Communist revolution, under Mao Tse Tung and helped the wounded Chinese who were fighting the Japanese invaders.

The Chinese thought he was invincible.

But one day while operating on a highly infectious soldier without gloves (because he didn’t have any) and with a cut on his finger, he contracted blood poisoning and died on Nov. 12th 1939 at teh age of 49 (my own age).

There were signs in English, French and Chinese, because so many Chinese people come there to see Bethune’s birth place.

It’s a kind of pilgrimage for them.

In fact there was a Chinese family there when we arrived and started strolling the grounds.

The gentleman said to me, “Do you know how Dr. Bethune is?”

And he said it with such pride!

I smiled and said, “Yes.” But honestly, until we watched the ten minute video biography upstairs, I didn’t know enough about the man.

Of course he was not without controversy. He joined the communist party, and that’s probably he was ignored as a Canadian hero for so long.

But in China…

He was buried with full honours in the martyrs graveyard, and Mao Tse Tung himself eulogized him in one of only three essays he ever wrote.

Apparently in the same way we sing the national anthem in our schools before starting the day, the Chinese recite by heart the three essays of Mao Tse Tung  every morning, including the essay that praises the contributions of Dr. Norman Bethune.

Wow!

It was a very interesting time.

And then afterwards we headed down to a park where we thought there was an antique autoshow but apparently that was yesterday.

So instead we headed up to Bala and partook in the spring studio tour. (We’d always only ever gone in the fall!)

It’s a tour of artists studios where you can purchase some of their art.

Coming back we drove along regional road 13, a little road we’d never traveled before, where the verge on the side of the asphalt was virtually nonexistent and the trees crowded close, often touching boughs overhead.

I was driving and came across a sign for turtle crossing, and thought to myself, “Yeah right! Never ever saw any turtles at those signs.” Then went around the corner, saw what I thought was a rock in the road, but it was too round. I was going too fast to avoid it, but luckily it was situated in between where my tires would go and I saw it duck it’s little  head down right as I drove over it. No sound of any crunching so it was all good!

Later on the same road there was another turtle crossing sign and this time there was a guy with a camera stopped at the side of the road and sure enough, there was a little old tortoise, crossing the pavement. I slowed down this time and we saw it from the back, high stepping in such a cute way, like the asphalt might be warm to the touch.

With lots of interesting conversation between hubby, my son and myself, it was a very pleasant day!

And coming home, I heard back from a friend about the sequel and from everything she said, I realized what I have to do.

It’s going to mean a LOT more work, but I think it will work.

It seems I didn’t connect the dots.

I’ve been adamant that Jameela’s the same character in the sequel as she is in the first book, but I failed to show how she got that way.

Which means either I scrap the idea of a sequel, or I make this the current sequel the ‘third’ in a trilogy, and write another book in between.

I’m tending towards the latter option.

I love the story. I feel so strongly that Wanting Mor is incomplete without this story, so now I just have to connect the dots.

In terms of epiphanies, it’s been pretty powerful.

I have to get up at 5 am to pray Fajr and then leave by 6 am for three presentations at a school in Niagara Falls.

And instead of sleeping, I had to come down here and type out all this stuff right now. And it’s 2:08 am.

When I can’t sleep, when epiphanies and things I’ve experienced, even pleasantly, keep looping around in my brain, the best remedy is to write it down. Only then can I get it out of my head.

And plus I had a coffee. It could be my sleeplessness is due to that. Oh, I’m so sensitive now!

Well, anyhoo, off to bed. To get up in 3 hours.

Knew I wouldn’t win the Hackmatack!

But really! Losing to a cat named Binky!

It was a little graphic novella, all of sixty odd pages, about a cat that wants to go into outer space.

Now this award is chosen by grades 4 and 5 I think.

They don’t have a young adult category, that’s why WANTING MOR was lumped in with old Binky.

I got to read my ‘nemesis’ while waiting to do that presentation in East Saint John (or was it west?), the one before that awesome presentation at Quispamsis.

It was a cute story. Reminded me of Melanie Watt’s Scaredy Squirrel series and Chester. It has the same type of humour.

Unfortunately the author, Ashley Spires, couldn’t make it to the ceremony. She got ill before she boarded the plane. I really hope she’s okay. (By the way, Congratulations Ms. Spires!)

When her name was called as the winner, I smiled joyfully. And I meant it.

One of the things I looked most forward to about the whole trip was actually getting to see Halifax again.

Halifax is a world unto itself.

There’s just such an ambience around it.

Go down to the wharf and you’ll find yourself humming sailing tunes like “What do you do with a drunken sailor” or “I’s the b’y the builds the boat”.

I stayed at the Waverley Inn. It has a floor decal or was it a mosaic (can’t remember) in the lobby that says it was built or founded in 1876. That’s the year that the Battle of the Little Big Horn was fought.

There was a bronze statue of a lady with bare breasts with one arm raised, on the little curly end post of the handrail. It was the kind of handrail that just begged to be ridden down by kids.

The inn is very pretty, but I sat there in the lobby, looking over all the antiques that decorated the joint, and the chandelier and the pretty rugs and I felt cold inside.

The clerk at the front desk was typing something on the computer and I said, “This place is haunted, isn’t it?”

Without missing a beat he said, “Yup.”

The author that was with me grew pale. She said something about being worried about nightmares, and he told her not to worry. It seemed pretty obvious that her room wasn’t the problem. He wouldn’t say which rooms were.

And that left me feeling a tad apprehensive.

I’m pretty good at my nightly routine.

Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe that people’s spirits get left behind to do unfinished business. But I do believe in jinns, and that each person is assigned a jinn. And perhaps some of them get released when the person they’re supposed to tempt dies, and they take on that person’s identity or something and they manifest themselves as ghosts. I don’t know. I’m only speculating. Jinns come in all kinds, good and bad.

Whatever the case I’ve had enough experiences to beware of jinns, and I can feel them in a place like that.

I’m not afraid of them. That would give them too much power. I’m just aware of them and I give them a wide berth.

They’re there, and I protect myself with Quranic chapters and prayers, that work beautifully, and they leave me alone.

I spent a nervous but uneventful night. Woke up at 4:30 am and prayed Fajr and felt completely peaceful after that. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that morning was almost at hand.

But later, in the bathroom at Pier 21, where the Hackmatack ceremony was being held, I met a lady in the bathroom who was acting very nervous.

I asked her if she was okay.

She said, “Did you feel anything at the Waverley?”

I told her it was haunted. And oddly enough she looked relieved.

She said, “I’m so glad it’s not just me! I’ve been so afraid of saying anything to people in case they think I’m crazy.”

I assured her it wasn’t just her. That I’d felt it too and she seemed so nervous, that I told her what I do to protect myself.

One of the best things you can do is say Bismillah (in God’s name) when you close a door to a house or a room. That way any jinn that has come along with you must remain outside.

I didn’t go on to tell her that before I go to sleep I also read the ‘three quls’ (the last three chapters of the Quran) and I blow on myself, and I also read Ayatul Kursi (the Verse of the Throne) it’s in the second chapter of the Quran and refers to God’s majesty and power over all things. After reading that, I blow on the corners of the room or house I’m staying in, and that is said to protect you all night till dawn, or all day till sunset, depending on when you recite it.

When I told the lady about saying Bismillah, telling her that she could just say, “In the name of God” (the translation) she made a strange comment.

She said that this reference to God was one of the things she missed having left her faith behind. She said she was the child of a preacher too. I just looked at her and said nothing.

She fluffed her hair muttering something like perhaps she could refer to some kind of cosmic spirituality or something.

Then she very nervously walked out of the bathroom.

I can’t imagine having to fend off jinns without the three quls and ayatul kursi.

At the ceremony I was escorted by a girl named Clara. Cute as a button! With blondish hair and freckles. She had stars in her eyes when she met me and held up the placard with an Ontario provincial flag stuck in the top and a picture of WANTING MOR on the front. She’d absolutely loved it!

So many other people came up to me to tell me how much they loved WANTING MOR too.

And honestly, it warmed my heart and was a great consolation prize.

Maybe I muttered something to that effect…I can’t even remember, and my son said that emotional and intellectual fatigue was what made you really tired.

And it was like something clicked.

Anything out of the ordinary tends to stress me out a bit.

I could do my Roses in My Carpets  presentation in my sleep! But still, melding that with my Wanting Mor  presentation is still a bit challenging. And especially since I was going to be doing it in front of my niece, who helped inspire Wanting Mor.

All those factors led to a lot of variables that were unusual and that more than the trips up all those stairs was probably what tuckered me out.

I came home and watched episode after episode of reality shows. And I don’t know why.

Why do I like watching Princess, a show about women who are manipulative divas with their spending out of control? And then followed that with The Next Great Baker, from Cake Boss.

My hubby commented last week when I was watching back to back episodes of Cake Boss’s Next Great Baker that he wouldn’t mind me watching it so much if it translated into me actually doing some baking!

LOL.

Then I watched two episodes of Hoarders.

But I do know why I watch that show! After seeing the apalling conditions that these people live in and how little rational sense they have, I feel SO put together!

Maybe that’s true with the debt shows as well.

I really don’t spend a lot, so it’s kind of vicarious pleasure to watch people who do!

I don’t know. I just know that it helped relax me, and ‘unfatigue’ my brain.

It also helped to get a persistent song out of my head for a little while.

A song that I hadn’t thought of for years, but it’s been haunting me since Saturday.

I first heard it when I was a kid and there was something about it that spoke to me. I also thought it was odd because it was obviously about a man and yet a woman’s voice was singing it.

I’m referring to: The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, by Joan Baez. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7r4DIb_nKgw&feature=related

Then there’s The Band’s version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Exvh52d0Weo&feature=related

Which has a more authentic feel to it and actually makes more sense.

When I was a kid I thought it had a Davy Crockett feel to it, but it’s actually about the fall of the South. And the travesty of justice perpetrated by Northern soldiers against the confederate States. And the whole idea of victors having won, saying ‘Na na na’, like children gloating and those who’ve been defeated mourning.

Not sure why I keep thinking about this song.

Could it be world events and my birthland being bombed constantly by drones? Not sure.

But it’s definitely haunting.

And yet for the longest while I felt like it wasn’t cool to like the song because of a silly WKRP episode where that DJ was trying to play a hard rock song and this one came up instead and it just sounded so lame in context.

I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. It’s a good song.

I don’t have much sympathy for the south, and I’m sure glad they lost, but I do identify with what they went through.

Yippee!

I feel like it’s closed the chapter on the whole experience.

One thing I really learned from this…make sure you get a receipt coming in from Canada customs saying that  you’ve got baggage coming in later, or else you could lose your personal exemption.

Each Canadian is allowed about $700 per person in buying gifts and stuff overseas when you’ve been gone a month, and by rights I shouldn’t have had to pay anything, but trying to convince the customs officer of that took some work.

She asked why I hadn’t declared anything coming in later, and I told her quite frankly that when I’d returned to Canada on Nov. 25th, with only my backpack containing my two abayas, one shalwar, two underwears and two pairs of socks, that I had no idea if I’d ever see my lost luggage again, so I didn’t declare it was coming later. 

Apparently that was a mistake.

We got into a discussion about Hajj. Our group leader and another lady who’d lost a piece, was there with me, and the custom’s officer was so interested she said, “Next time take me with you!”

Even now it makes me laugh.

I told her, “Sorry, it’s a Muslim thing.”

And she said how she was open to all kinds of faiths.

It was really cute!

But a little embarrassing when I blurted out that silly incident in Muzdalifa, and right there, in front of that customs agent, the tears started pouring out of my eyes.

I’m still not over the fact that I might have ruined my Hajj in that moment of thoughtlessness. The group leader assured me that it hadn’t nullified it and urged me to ask forgivness. I told him that I already had.

And then the group leader said how there were some people he’d taken for Hajj who’d sworn at him during the process. After witnessing that meeting at that hotel in Medina I’m actually not surprised.

After about an hour’s conversation, and seeing some back and forth emails on our group leader’s blackberry, the custom’s officer was finally convinced that we really were telling the truth and she released our luggage without charging us any duty!

I brought the bags home, searched them thoroughly for any bedbugs that might be hiding in the crevices of the seams, like I’d seen on Dr. Oz, and then unpacked. Despite the fact that there were no bedbugs in our hotel room in Medina and despite the fact that everything had been sent to the laundry in Medina and was clean, I washed everything in my suitcase, inspecting each article of clothing thoroughly for any apple-seed-size stowaways!

One thing surprised me.

On impulse I had bought these two little stuffed camels at Uhud. This kid was selling them and when you touched them the camel’s red beaded eyes lit up and an annoying little song played. At the time of course I didn’t think it was annoying but after a while, like most musical toys, it quickly became annoying.

When I had packed the large suitcase the camels often went off, and you could hear the annoying little song from inside. And yet when I brought the large suitcase into the house, not a peep!

I thought maybe the batteries had died or something, but when I finally opened the suitcase I saw six little batteries strewn in the midst and I didn’t know where they came from till I opened up the camels’ interiors.

Someone had opened my suitcase and taken the batteries out!

I got over the feeling of being violated when I put the batteries back in and the annoying song played! No wonder they’d gone in and disabled them!

This afternoon I had to call up a scholar about an issue of Islamic jurisprudence in the sequel for Wanting Mor that I’m writing, and while I was on the phone with him I told him what I did at Muzdalifa and asked him how I could make up for it.

He too urged me to ask forgiveness and he also said I should feed some poor people. I asked him if I should do a sacrifice of a sheep in Somalia (where the meat would be fed to the poor) and he said, no, that wasn’t necessary, but to give $10 each to a bunch of poor people and that would cover it.

I’ve been fasting the last five days. It’s helped me get back into a good routine writing wise but it’s played havoc with my dieting.

Then while speaking to one of my daughters, she told me that it had been the tenth of Muharram on Thursday and asked if I’d fasted.

I’ve been fasting since about Wednesday, trying to make up as many of my missed Ramadan fasts as I can while the days are so short.

Apparently the story goes that Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) noticed the Jews of Medina fasting on the tenth of Muharram and he asked them why. They told him that it was the day that Moses (peace be upon him) had gotten victory over Pharoah (I think). She can correct me if I’m wrong.

The Prophet (peace be upon him) told the Jews that we had more right to Moses (peace be upon him) than they did, and ordered the Muslims to fast on this day too. But in order to differentiate ourselves we must fast either the day before or the day after as well. Well I was fasting both the day before and the day after, but I wish I had realized the significance of those days. They completely slipped my mind.

Apparently if you fast those days then all your previous year’s sins are forgiven. (Including my gaff at Muzdalifa, I hope!!!!)

And yet, actions are rewarded according to intentions and at the time my intention was not to fast for the 10th of Muharram, but just to make up for those missed in Ramadan. But I think I covered myself.

I prayed to God to make my intention retroactive, and give me the reward for fasting it anyway!

I’ll also give that charity, just to make sure I’m covered.

This Friday I plan to invite the kids and their families over for a pizza party.

Yup, a ‘Christmas eve’ pizza party where they’ll open the presents I brought them from Hajj.

Me gathered with millions of others, sending my thoughts and prayers up to our Lord and Creator.

Yesterday I took one of my daughters and her children down to visit my parents. It was my first post Hajj visit, and my mom went all out, making my favourite chicken korma and pilau in my honour!

Oh it was heavenly! She really outdid herself, even though she gets tired so easily with her knee replacement.

And on the way down my daughter gave me her feedback on my Hajj posts. We have a unique relationship, my daughters and I. We are some of our most critical critics, and yet we seek each others’ opinions out because we know we’ll be honest and not spiteful.

They’re always asking me what I think of their artwork and especially when I was starting out, I’ve always asked them what they thought of my writing.

And according to two of my daughters and one of their husbands (the one who’s been reading the blog consistently) the impression that came across from my Hajj posts was a mostly negative experience.

It would be terrible if all people came away with from my detailed description was how hard it was and how silly I was on that night in Muzdalifa.

I felt I needed to really correct that impression, problem is, it involves getting into the nitty gritty of spirituality that I mostly avoid when writing about religion.

I mean how do you talk about how you felt when you’re pouring out your heart to your Creator without making it sound preachy and mushy and sentimental?

And it’s so intensely personal. And talking about it makes you sound so …oh I don’t know, righteous?

During one of his speeches Obama said that he didn’t believe in wearing his spirituality in public or something like that. I could understand that.

It’s like the feeling you get when you’d watch Tammy Faye’s mascara running down her cheeks during the height of her evangelical experience.

I couldn’t help thinking that how can she be experiencing that with all those cameras on her???

It looks fake.

That’s one of the reasons why, when talking about my Hajj experience I avoided getting too personal into the spiritual connection.

I still won’t go into it too much. Some things really are too personal, it would be like relating an intimate conversation.

But I will say this much. There is a difference between the conversations I have both internally and through prayer with God in the comfort of my home, and the conversations I had with God on those sacred sites.

Being in the state of ihram heightens your awareness of every single thing that you do. Maybe I talked so much about the little annoyances in my posts because while I was in ihram, I didn’t express them in any other way.

It also made me appreciate that the reason I felt the privations so keenly was because I am so accustomed to North American standards. I am spoiled in that regard. The standards there were more typical of global conditions.

It was also interesting that while I was on Hajj, I often dreamed of buying new homes or babysitting, and other silly things, but as soon as I left, even while spending those five days in Dubai with my nephew, I couldn’t stop dreaming of Hajj. Of Mecca, of Mina, of circling the Kaaba.

The first night I got home was uncanny.

I was exhausted of course, and sleeping in my bed was luxurious, but when I got up to go to the bathroom in the night, I had absolutely no idea of where I was.

I was sure I was still on Hajj.

Every night for ten days, I dreamed of Hajj.

And the weirdest thing was that the time I was there, in Mecca, in Mina, in Muzdalifa, I thought very little of my life back here. I didn’t think of my writing. In fact THAT felt like THE REALITY, and this life I lead here, in Canada, felt like the illusion.

I only really felt like I returned on Wednesday. That was the first day I had to go do school presentations. Three of them, in fact, at a school in Markham.

I got up, went to Tim Horton’s and bought a coffee, and the familiarity of the routine grounded me.

I thought I was the only one that couldn’t stop dreaming of Hajj, but when I went to see my Hajj sisters at that mosque across town, it seems all of them had the same experience.

It really is a journey of a lifetime, and all the minor inconveniences have faded into proper perspective.

It was a FABULOUS experience and I hope and I pray that I can go again one day.

Oh, and when I told my mom about that incident in Muzdalifa, she suggested I pay for a sheep to be sacrificed in a poor country where the meat will be distributed to the poor. I’ve chosen Somalia.

When you do a sin, cover it up with a good deed. It’ll help wipe it out.