I buy organic fruits and vegetables whenever I can. For breakfast, I usually have grapefruit. When possible, I buy pink or red grapefruits, because they contain more lycopene than the ordinary white grapefruit.

Lycopene is an antioxidant that neutralizes free radicals so that they do not damage the cells in the body. It imparts its red colour to tomatoes, guava, rosehip, watermelon and pink and red grapefruit, and is more readily absorbed if processed into juice, so I juice it in my Vita-Mix juicer, which is a very high powered sort of blender/juicer.

See http://www.vitamix.com/household/products/super5000/value.html

Rather than extracting an important part of the fruit, the cellulose fibres, the Vita-Mix grinds them down and allowing me to consume them in my juice. I know I don’t chew sufficiently for food to be absorbed properly into my body, so this is a better way for me to eat grapefruit, and I really enjoy a glass of grapefruit juice first thing in the morning.

Lycopene is a carotenoid. Carotenoids are usually orange or red in colour and, as beta-carotene, are the main source of vitamin A in humans. Once in the body, lycopene is deposited in the liver, lungs, prostate gland, colon and skin, and its concentration in the body seems to be higher than all other carotenoids. Research suggests that lycopene is associated with reduced risk of macular degenerative disease, serum lipid oxidation, and cancers of the lung, bladder, cervix and skin.

Grapefruit is an excellent source of vitamin C , a vitamin that helps to support the immune system, and reduce cold symptoms, prevent free radical damage, and reduce severity of inflammatory conditions, such as asthma, osteoarthritis, and rheumatoid arthritis. It helps to promote cardiovascular health, reducing the risk of heart disease and stroke.

There are phytochemicals called limonoids in grapefruit, and these inhibit tumour formation by promoting the formation of glutathione-S-transferase, a detoxifying enzyme that encourages the release of toxic compounds from the body. The pulp of the grapefruit (which I make sure I consume) contains glucarates: compounds which may help prevent breast cancer. Limonoids have been shown to help fight cancers of the mouth, skin, lung, breast, stomach and colon. Limonoids are potent anti-carcinogens. One liminoid, known as limonin, is very long lasting, and grapefruits have about the same amount of it as they do vitamin C. Our bodies easily digest this compound.

Grapefruit contains pectin, a form of soluble fibre that has been shown, in animal studies, to slow the progression of atherosclerosis . It lowers cholesterol and heart disease risk. Both ordinary and red/pink grapefruit can reduce blood levels of LDL (bad) cholesterol, and red/pink grapefruits also lower triglycerides. When consumed daily by humans, both grapefruits appear to lower LDL cholesterol in just 30 days. However, the red grapefruit appears to be more than twice as effective.

Red and pink grapefruit contain more bioactive compounds and total polyphenols than ordinary grapefruit, but both grapefruits have equal fibre, phenolic and ascorbic acids, and the flavonoid, naringinen, although red and pink grapefruit contain slightly more flavonoids and anthocyanins.

Naringenin, a flavonoid concentrated in grapefruit, helps repair damaged D NA in human prostate cancer cells. DNA repair is one of the body's primary defences against the development of cancer.

There is indication that eating three or more servings of fruit per day may lower your risk of age-related macular degeneration, the primary cause of vision loss in older adults, by 36%, compared with persons who consume less than half the amount.

In some instances, there can be drug interactions with grapefruit and grapefruit juice, as it may increase the amount of certain medications active in the bloodstream. That includes cholesterol-fighting statin drugs, calcium-channel blocker drugs for high blood pressure, and some antihistamines. Consult a pharmacist with any questions, and tell your doctor about any supplements you're taking, including over-the-counter items, herbal products, and vitamins.

Grapefruit is a source of potassium, folate, iron, calcium, iron, magnesium, phosphorous, zinc, copper, manganese, and selenium; all are minerals required by the body. It is high in fibre (if you consume the pulp) and low in calories, and also contains a tiny amount of vitamins E, and some of the B vitamins.

Don’t forget to consume only organic fruits and vegetables, so that you don’t overload your system with cancer-causing pesticides. Organic produce might be a little more expensive than the regular, pesticide-ridden varieties but we cannot place a price on health. I was pleased to see one of my local supermarkets, PriceSmart Foods, offering organic foods, and I have now switched from shopping at Safeway. I do still shop at organic grocery stores, but I also want to encourage the big chains to offer us this option, so I shop there too.

If we start to demand organic foods, perhaps we will stop dying of cancer, to name but one disease. Our systems are so overloaded with toxins and pesticides, that our bodies can’t do their jobs. Spend a few pennies more on organic foods. Eat a little less if you have to, but help take the trend away from the pesticides, irradiation, and hormones that contaminate our food and get us back to health.

A friend of mine is on his way to Morocco today. He lives in England and is taking a cruise ship to Agadir. I am sure he will enjoy it, but I doubt that he will get chance to see the Atlas Mountains, the rural villages, and the beautiful scenery that Morocco offers.

If you’re considering a trip to Morocco, I would recommend booking a tour. For one thing, the official language is Arabic and, although many speak French, the language of business, it is spoken with heavy Berber dialects and communications are often difficult. Some people do speak English and Spanish but, in some regions, only Tamazight (the Berber language) is spoken.

When my husband I visited Morocco, we were independent travellers and we rented a car. Economy cars are usually Renaults. Our little Renault (known for reliability) broke down four times and, each time, it was stressful to change cars in a different town. We were towed here; we were towed there. One time, we broke down on a main road, just near a policeman who was directing traffic. This was 1993 and I don’t know if things have changed, but he did not have a radio as part of his equipment. He flagged down a passing truck, and told the driver to tell someone to send a tow truck. We waited about an hour and, sure enough, a tow truck appeared. The driver was a very nice man, and never gave us any trouble. The car hire company paid the bill. However, we did lose an awful lot of time out of our holiday, due to breakdowns.

Negotiating traffic in the cities was hell. It was a mixture of horses and carts, donkeys, people, Renaults and Mercedes, and there did not appear to be any rules. Drug dealers prefer to drive Mercedes. Be careful if you see two young men in a Mercedes tailing you, especially on the road to Tetuon. A common practice is to pull alongside your vehicle and force you off the road. They may then force you to buy some drugs, and then drive down the road to inform the police, who will be waiting for you enroute. You would then have to pay off the police. That’s how it goes. Don’t buy any drugs. It is illegal for tourists to possess drugs, but not illegal for the locals. If you see a Mercedes tailing you, hoof it!

As with any other foreign destination, the people you are most likely to meet are those who will hassle you for money, or to sell you something. Morocco is bad for that, and some can get quite nasty. We were spat at sometimes. There are officially licensed guides who tout for business; lots of them. Either hire one, or be prepared for them to pursue you. Some have phoney identification cards. Not all Moroccans are like that, just as not all Canadians are downtown panhandlers.

We had a wonderful guide book, published by Cadogan Guides. At the time, the information it contained was highly accurate. We booked our own hotels, but be warned that the star rating system is all over the board, and does not match the North American rating system. The Moroccan government awards the star rating to the hotels. Often the ratings are not updated for years, and they don’t seem to have any proper standards. There could well be some corruption involved in the rating system. One three star hotel might be very different in quality from another three star hotel, so you take your chances. However, if you were to go with a tour group, the standards have been well-established for you in advance, and there is less chance of disappointment. Tour companies don’t want disappointed customers. They want repeat business.

I would not go anywhere alone in Morocco . Others might disagree with me. It was my first trip to North Africa , and was quite a culture shock at the time. Some Moroccans feel it is their God-given right to hassle foreigners. If I were to go again, I would wear a caftan and make sure that I had a male escort, wearing a djellaba. We might not pass for Moroccans but, if we learn  to walk like Moroccans, we might pass for residents, and would most likely be left alone.

We got lost in the souk in Marrakech. Fortunately, we had the handy-dandy Cadogan guide book. It had a diagram, or simple map, of the souk. We were plea sed when we stumbled across the gendarmerie. Moroccan police appear to be a sort of hybrid of military and police, and there were some barracks inside the souk. Two officers were on guard at the main gates. They could not speak French at all, and had never seen a map before. They just looked puzzled and irritated when we showed them the map. Then I remembered that desert people navigate by the stars, not maps. We were out of luck.

It is best to eat at hotels or more expensive restaurants in the big cities, and not to eat salads. I am told that the fields are fertilized with human excrement. Make sure your food is cooked. A bean soup, called harira, is relatively safe. Fruit is often injected with water to make it weigh more, as with melons, for example. The fruit might be safe, but the water is dubious. Of course, bottle water or drinks is the safest way to go. Fanta and Coke are brands of soft drinks that are advertised everywhere. Fly covered meat often hangs in the open air at the local market. Maybe fish would be safer.

Now, after all these negatives, would I go again? Yes, of course I would! It is an absolutely fascinating country with a rich culture and history. The scenery, once out of the towns, is magnificent. Beautiful panoramic vistas are everywhere, and there are fascinating ruins of old Roman towns, such as Volubilis. I don’t know how the Romans did it, but they certainly knew how to find town sites with fantastic 360 degree views.

I have travelled a little more since that time, and feel more relaxed about North Africa . I would like to see all of it and, as I have said, I would definitely go to Morocco again. I do feel, however, that a lot of the problems I mentioned earlier could have been avoided, had we booked a tour. Tours take a lot of the headaches out of finding your way around, finding safe places to eat, and comfortable places to lodge. You don’t have to worry about cars breaking down, or paying people to watch your car when it is parked. By the way, this is customary in Morocco . Don’t fight the system. For the sake of a couple of dirhams (Moroccan cents, or pennies), it’s not worth the hassle.

The guide book provided street names, and showed maps, of course, but they didn’t say that many of the street names were in Arabic script only. We couldn’t read them! So a tour bus driver would have been most useful. I still recommend the book, even if you do book a tour. It tells you lots about the political and social environment and the local customs. Most of the merchants are very good to deal with, provided you know the protocol. We did meet some nice people in Morocco , when we weren’t running away from street vendors and shady-looking characters.

There are strict laws in Morocco about bothering tourists. One time, a man was following us and making a nuisance of himself. I turned around and yelled at him. He was gone in a flash. I was quite surprised at my own power, and I wondered if perhaps they were afraid of women, but it was explained to me that I had drawn attention to the man with my loud voice, and what he was doing was illegal. If they think you will report them to the police, or draw attention to the situation, they are gone in a flash. If someone is bothering you and you see a policeman, walk purposely towards the policeman. When you turn around the perpetrator will be gone.

One tip I can give you about these characters is as follows. Many have lea rned a few words of several languages, in order to approach the tourists. They will ask you if you speak English, French, German, Spanish, as they can often speak enough of these four languages to get by. Answer them, “Chinois?” (Chinese?), and smile sweetly and expectantly. They will pause, look puzzled and disappear. Poof! It’s almost guaranteed.

So, book a tour for your first trip, buy a good guidebook to get the most out of your visit, and wear the local dress if you decide to wander by yourself. All the normal personal safety tips about your wallet, etc. would apply.

Morocco really is a great experience: beautiful vistas, interesting souks, music, dance, donkey markets, camel rides, water sellers, Roman cities, winding streets, mosques, great souvenirs such as gemstones, fossils, pottery, tribal jewellery, and more. The food is wonderful if you can find a good place to eat, and the recipes are interesting to try at home. Since that trip, I have developed a great appreciation of Berber art, music, food and dance. Moroccan home décor and architecture is very interesting.

I would love to travel there again. It would be best would be with a Moroccan guide. Nothing beats the firsthand information that a countryman can give you. I wouldn’t go alone, unless I was travelling with a reputable tour company that had all the right connections. For a small group experience, you might like to check out www.adventures-abroad.com. I have travelled with them before, and had a wonderful experience.

I hope you will check out Morocco . It has good and bad like every country. A visit to Morocco is a very rich and rewarding experience, and you will come home with an appreciation of its history, and most interesting culture. Who knows, you might learn to belly dance, like I did.

I was interested to learn that blackcurrants and, in particular, British blackcurrants, may help prevent the onset of Alzheimer’s Disease. The significance of this, to me, was that my father had Alzheimer’s disease. Not only that but, during the war, he was taken prisoner and sent to a prison camp known as Stalag XIB, near Hanover in Germany. From there, some of the prisoners were used as forced labour in the Bad Grund lead mine, in the Hartz mountains. During this time, he was starving, and craved blackcurrant jam. The memory of this craving stayed with him throughout life. He thought it was funny that he should be craving, of all things, blackcurrant jam. I do believe our systems are designed in such a way that our cravings tell us what our body needs.

Another interesting aspect of this craving is the fact that he was working in a lead mine. Contact with lead, either by skin or ingestion, can allow it access to your system, and it never leaves unless, perhaps, chelation therapy is applied. It has also been suggested that there are links between heavy metal toxicity and Alzheimer’s Disease.

When you have finished reading this blog, please click on Blackcurrant Jam, on the lefthand side of this website, for a story I wrote some years ago about my father, blackcurrant jam, and Alzheimer’s Disease.

So, as I have said, I was interested to read the recent findings about blackcurrants and, as I could well carry the gene for Alzheimer’s perhaps I should start stocking up on blackcurrants. Alzheimer’s Disease is the most common form of dementia and currently affects over 13 million people worldwide.What I learned recently is that there are compounds in blackcurrants that have a potent protective effect against the types of stress caused by dopamine and amyloid-b, a peptide associated with Alzheimer’s Disease. It was already well known that there are antioxidants in the berries, but a role in neuroprotection had not been demonstrated until now.

The British blackcurrants are the best, as they have been cultivated be darker in colour, which means they have more anthocyanins. They are therefore likely to be more potent. Anthocyanins also protect against cancer and heart disease. Blackcurrants contain polyphenolics. Polyphenolics are in plants and plant products ranging from the deep red and blue pigments in berry fruits to the white flavedo in citrus fruits, and believed to possess anti-inflammatory, antibacterial, antiviral, antiallergenic, antithrombotic, anticarcinogenic and antioxidant properties.

These berries are not grown in the USA because blackcurrants and gooseberries are known to be hosts for white pine blister rust. This does not affect the blackcurrants and gooseberries, but it is serious for the white pine tree. Most of the blackcurrants grown in the U.K. are grown for the production of Ribena, a concentrated blackcurrant drink produced by GlaxoSmithKline. http://www.ribena.co.uk/index_flash.html

As a child in England , I drank it to prevent colds and flu. Adults drank it with rum. I’ve seen blackcurrant jam on the shelves in the supermarkets here in Canada , and I’ve seen Ribena, but I have never seen blackcurrants for sale. They are supposed to be much more potent than blueberries, which we have plenty of. I guess I’ll start drinking Ribena again.

Know Thyself

I seem to be focussing on dreams this week. Last night, I dreamt I worked for a company that sold wholesale automotive parts. A man walked in to the office, and said that he wanted some brake shoes for his vehicle. I knew all the technical things to ask about his vehicle to determine which brake shoes he needed. I must have been going to automotive trade school in the astral zone, because I don’t know how I knew what to ask.

I had to order the parts for him, because we didn’t have them in stock. There was something about him that made me feel uneasy. He seemed a little nervous. He was well-dressed, wearing a business suit and raincoat, tall and slim, about forty years of age, and clean cut. But he was wriggling about and couldn’t seem to look me in the eye. Finally, he asked if we took credit cards. I was a little surprised because, although I didn’t know him, I had assumed he had a business account with us, and that we would be invoicing him at the end of the month. Of course, I told him that we could accept his credit card. Then, after a little more shifty eye contact and nervous wriggling,  he asked if he could pay in two payments, spread a month apart. I was a little nervous now, because we were in the wholesale business, normally dealing with retail business owners with long-standing accounts. We weren’t used to questions like this, and I had already ordered the part. I should have checked him out before I ordered it.

He hung around the office, waiting for the part to arrive. I was the only one there, and the working day was coming to an end. The parts still hadn’t arrived. I was getting nervous now and, from the corner of my eye, I could see that he was too. I started to wonder who he really was, and whether or not he had an ulterior motive. I was there alone and I was starting to get scared. Just then, my boss walked in.

Of course, he wanted to know who this guy was, hanging around the office, and I told him the story. He wasn’t very pleased that I had been selling wholesale to all and sundry who walked in off the street. I was still wondering if we would ever get rid of this guy. It looked like the parts would not be arriving that day. Out of the blue, I found myself announcing to the man, in a matter of fact sort of way, that I had a black belt in karate and that I had once broken a man’s nose with my foot. He looked at my short legs in disbelief. I involved my boss: “You remember that, don’t you, Bill? When I broke that man’s nose in karate?” Bill looked perplexed. “It was when everyone in the office joined that karate club. Remember?”, I said with a wink at Bill. “Oh, yes. I guess so.”, was the reply.

For a moment, while still asleep, I realized that I had just put on another mask. This time, it was a lie, created on the spur of the moment to confuse the enemy: the man with the shifty eyes and the nervous body language, who was hanging around my office with obvious ill-intent. Thank goodness the boss had arrived in time, but it didn’t hurt to throw on a mask just to keep the murdering rapist at bay. The boss sent him packing anyway. I don’t know how the man got home without his car but, by now, it was just the boss and me.

I was getting ready to leave, when the boss started with some comments about how I had not been diligent enough in screening the customers, and how it was lucky for me that he had come back when he did, and taken control. “ Let that be a lesson to you.”, he had implied. I felt fearful now that my job might be threatened, due to this lack of judgement on my part and that, at the very least, I had gone down in my boss's estimation. I felt less than perfect. I didn’t know what mask I would wear tomorrow to cover up these feelings of inadequacy.

Then he asked me if I had to go straight home, adding that it might be wiser if I were to accept his invitation for drinks and a bite to eat. It seemed to me that I would be doomed if I did and doomed if I didn’t. From the expression on his face, his intention seemed quite clear to me.

It was at this point that my dogs jumped on top of me, and I was forced to get out of bed. I realized again that, when faced with “controllers” in our lives, we pull out yet another mask, and the choice of mask depends on our sense of self-worth. Do we smile and pretend to go along with the boss, giving in to his will? Or do we pull out the other mask and walk out? Every little incident gives us a choice of which mask to wear. We will be prompted either from fear or desire, and we will have to face the consequences, regardless. Our perceived consequences are coloured, not only by fear or desire, but also by the masks we are already wearing. It’s hard for us to take down masks, once they are up there, and start again. The masks distort our reality, changing our entire universe.

Even the little boys in yesterday’s dream were wearing masks. They were only about ten years old and, already, they had insulated themselves against the world, clinging together and seeing only the ocean in which they threw their stones. The ocean, of course, is the symbol of the universal unconscious. We pelt our subconscious with stones of defiance, rather than expose our vulnerability.

Again I see Hamad’s earnest face, as he offers to share his life with me, and protect me from the world. I see how, without his mask, he is vulnerable to all those who would like to take advantage of his good heart. (see blog: HOW MUCH DOES A CHICKEN COST?).

Know Thyself

I love dreaming. In my dreams, there is a whole other world. To me, it feels like I am getting two rides for the price of one: my physical life, and my dream life. I am quite certain that both are very real. I meet all kinds of characters in my dreams, and I sometimes travel to far away places – for free! No air miles to save, no passport to worry about – I just go. No travel time either, and no busy airports or fear of lost luggage.

Last night’s was a relatively boring dream really. It seemed I was looking after two little boys. British they were, and they wore grey flannel suits with short trousers. I don’t suppose little English boys wear short trousers anymore, but they did when I was young. Poor little things, they suffered terribly in the winter. They would wear long grey wool socks which never covered their knees, and were always falling down. Once they had been washed a couple of times, all the stretch went out of them. They often wore elastic garters (usually their Boy Scout garters, with a little green tag) to keep them up. In the winter, legs would be chapped and red. It didn’t make sense to me.

Anyway, last night in my dream, there were these two little English schoolboys, dressed as described. I don’t know what they were doing here with me, but it seemed they had been parked with me for a couple of weeks. Who owned them, I don’t know - and why me? Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know anything about looking after little boys. But they were here in Canada , and I was stuck with them. I tried to palm them off with other people, of course (who wouldn’t?), but there were no takers.

They were strange little boys. They didn’t seem to be related, but they were very close to each other, and they didn’t mix very well with other children. They were quite self-contained and, when I think about it, didn’t really seem to notice anyone else. They stood by the ocean, throwing stones into the waves at sunset; shadowy, short-trousered, short-statured figures outlined against a red sky. They didn’t wear school caps. Perhaps it was because they were on holiday. A couple of mechants, they were. At least, that’s what sprang to mind about them. I somehow got the feeling they were from a remand home.

They kept talking about flying back to Victoria from Vancouver . They must have come here via Victoria . I was still puzzled about it all. I had no idea who they were, and didn’t even know their names, but I was relieved that their two weeks with me were coming to an end, and told them that their ticket back to Britain showed a Vancouver departure, so there would be no need for them to go to Victoria . They seemed a little disappointed. I had no idea why they would have airline tickets from Vancouver to Victoria . There is a perfectly good car ferry, which takes about one hour and thirty five minutes for the crossing. So that left two airline tickets that would be unused. I thought hard on this, trying to figure out a way that they wouldn’t be wasted.

I don’t know what happened to these boys in the end, because I woke up. I was rather disappointed that it wasn’t an exciting dream of the more mystical kind. I love those best. Then I started to wonder if there was some deep psychological significance to these two kids. I am sure the psychologists could have a field day. If the dream was about me, then I can see something of me in those two little boys, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in my school uniform, much less theirs. However, there could be something of me in the boys, although there is only one of me, isn’t there? I mean, I don’t think we are schizophrenic, and we never went to a remand home, so it couldn’t be about us, could it? It couldn’t, could it?

 Know Thyself

I would go to Egypt again at the drop of a hat. There is a special energy in Egypt, not only at the pyramids and monuments, but everywhere you go. The Nile has a power all of its own. I was lucky enough to cruise down it in luxury for three days. The route was from Cairo to Aswan . We stopped along the way at various ancient cities and, in Aswan, we saw the magnificent temple, Abu Simnel. It took my breath away.

An Egyptian asked me what I liked best about Egypt. I answered, “The Nile.”, and it thrilled him. The Nile does have a vibrant, life-giving pulse. Farmers can be seen with their water buffalo, turning ancient water wheels to irrigate their land. Naturally, they love the Nile; it gives them life. It was such a thrill to find myself actually sailing on the Nile, watching people working in their fields, and seeing the little houses dotted along the route. Sometimes people would wave and sometimes little boys would paddle up to our cruiser in homemade boats. For the most part, they had cut oil drums in half, lengthwise. At approximately eight to ten years of age, they could fit in them quite nicely. They made their own paddles, which attached, rather like table tennis bats, to their hands, and they paddled up to the tourists’ vessels, singing songs, such as “Row, row, row the boat, gently on the stream.”, while they waited for someone to toss some money into their little boats. This money would be used to help support their families.

Life is different there alright, with an emphasis on family, friends, religion and, in most cases, simply surviving from day to day. The Egyptian people are most friendly, polite and hospitable. I was fortunate enough to be invited to many homes. Without exception, they were clea n and simple, and I was offered food and drink, and treated like a queen. Even in one home, where I knew there was no more food, I was graciously offered a pita bread potato sandwich. I have many stories about Egypt. I was impressed, however, with the simplicity and kindness of the people.

One time, when I was there with a tour group, we were in the habit of hiring caleches (horse drawn vehicles) and drivers to take us to visit places. In Luxor, there was a big Nubian driver, Hamad, who seemed to like my company; I always sat up front with him, and he let me drive the calech. He could speak just a few words of English and, at that time, I spoke no Arabic, so our discussions were fairly simple. He wondered about life in Canada, and I wondered about Egypt . He was from a class of Egyptians known as the Fellahin, which basically means a peasant farmer. We drove through his neighbourhood one time, and little boys chased the caleches, as little boys will do. Hamad pretended to threaten them with the whip. It was a great game for them. Some of the tourists gave the children candies, but the drivers didn’t like to encourage the children.

As we drove by the simple houses, people would sometimes come out and shout “Hello!”, and little children would proudly hold up their English school textbooks for us to see: “Hello”, books 1, 2 and 3, etc. They were delighted when we yelled “Hello!” back, and waved to them. I noticed the washing lines. There was always washing hanging in the hot sun, and the clothes were always spotlessly clean, despite the dust and desert sand. Many of the washing lines displayed raggedy clothes. In shreds they were, but they were clean, spotlessly clean. I doubted that there would be washing machines in the homes. I knew they used TIDE. I had seen it in the grocery stores.

During one conversation, Hamad asked me about myself, and I told him I was a widow. With a serious face and all sincerity, Hamad put his hand on his heart, and offered to marry me. It was so sweet. I found it difficult to know what to say, as I didn’t want to hurt his feelings after such a genuine offer had been made. It was an awkward moment. Hamad and I had various conversations about horses, and discussed who had a good horse, and who didn’t, who fed his horse well, and who didn’t. We discussed the cost of shoeing a horse in Egypt, compared with the cost of shoeing a horse in Canada, and everyday topics in general. Hamad did his best to care for his horse, as they all do, but income is limited and most Egyptians are thinner than their horses.

But the question I will always remember, as long as I live, was when Hamad, leaning forward with great interest, asked me, “How much does a chicken cost in Canada ?”. I felt ashamed that I didn’t even know, as I never checked the price when buying a chicken. I just tossed it into the supermarket cart, along with the rest of the groceries. Had Hamad been American, Canadian, or European, his question would most likely have been about the cost of a house, or a car, a boat, or even gasoline. In Hamad’s life, the focus was on the cost of a chicken. I did feel somewhat ashamed that I had so much, and yet Hamad had offered, so gallantly, to save me from widowhood.

I’ll never forget Hamad. I’ll never forget his question.

If you would like to help people like Hamad look after their horses, which is their livelihood, or if you love horses, please check out this link http://www.ace-egypt.org.uk/

Know Thyself

It's pouring down with rain today here, where I live in beautiful British Columbia. It reminds me of my earlier days in England. It always seemed to rain on Saturdays. I don't know why, but it did. We never went anywhere without an umbrella. There's something about the rain that always brings up that warm, fuzzy feeling if I am happily entrenched indoors with a warm fire, music, TV, or a book, and easy access to endless cups of tea or coffee, and a snack. It's a wonderful excuse not to have to work in the garden. I hate gardening. In fact, the rain is a wonderful excuse for all kinds of inactivity. I am grateful for it, just as I am also grateful for the sunshine. Both make the plants grow and we can't have one without the other, just like we cannot have laughter without tears. We need both in order to grow.

I have learned that, with my tears, have come opportunities for personal growth, wisdom, an understanding of others needs, and a deeper understanding of myself. Tears help us to develop compassion. When we talk about faith, hope and charity, charity is actually compassionate love. Compassionate love is not romantic love, and neither does it judge, criticize, or anticipate anything in return. I suppose we keep getting tears, to remind us that we have a long way to go in developing true compassion, before we can be like the Dalai Lama, Mother Teresa, or Jesus Christ. "It's a good thing.", as Martha Stewart might say.

Occasionally, I meet people who seem to have lives full of joy, and no tears. I sometimes think that these people must be the unhappiest of all, for they are either adept at mask-making (hiding their true self from the world), or are missing opportunities for their spirits to grow. We are, after all, spiritual beings, having a human experience. It would be a shame to miss the experience. Tears, make us appreciate the joyful times more, just as we appreciate the sunshine when it comes.

Have you ever noticed how warm, polite, and friendly people are when the sun is shining? Their careworn faces are brighter, their voices and banter are lighter, and they smile. I love the sunshine! I love to feel it on my skin and to go outside and enjoy it. It's better than being stuck inside, looking at the rain, or watching TV, or reading a book, or listening to music. It stops me drinking tea or coffee, and eating everything in sight.