Parenting is such a privilege, but it tests us doesn't it? Feeling like raw beginners ourselves, we are asked to steer youngsters through the shoals to adulthood. Ultimately we can only do our best, but finding that best within can be a real challenge.

John Ruskin gave a lecture in Manchester in 1864 entitled "Sesame - of King's Treasures." At that time he said "A nation cannot last as a money-making mob."

I was reminded of statement the other day because the youngest of my two daughters is leaving school this year. Adults are pretty free with their questions and advice at the best of times, but just now everyone she meets seems to be a self appointed careers advisor. "It's all about jobs" and "Be sure to choose a profession with good earning potential." "Arts? What do you expect to do with that?"

Is this healthy -to encourage people to make choices on the basis of fear and scarcity? Why do we not enquire :What would you love to do? What contribution would you like to make to our community? How can we help you achieve it?

Whatever age you are, whatever choice you have to make I have a suggestion for you test out.

Try to choose on the basis of what makes your heart sing. 

Look to your own interests and talents.

Ask yourself what ways you could make a difference in the world - it may be big or small.

Remember there is no such thing as mistakes - only alternative paths to be explored. 

Trust that your own unique note rings out truly. 

Follow that note and this abundant life will certainly support you. 

Here is the opening of a story for you. Your comments and criticism would be valued.

Regards 

Meg

Rhona Manners could have been murdered at the Museum that Friday morning and no one would have missed her until tea time. She was standing in the café, where her face was reflected in the glass of the food cabinet, but no one noticed that. The rest of her was hidden from view by the other, larger people around her. As she advanced one place in the queue a tall man dressed in a sports jacket and narrow corduroy jeans came and stood behind her. He was holding a swipe card on a key ring in one hand and jingling coins in the other.

When Mrs Manners found herself at the counter she smiled politely at the young girl beside the till whose jaw rotated rhythmically around a piece of chewing gum .

“Long black please.” Her words were clearly enunciated, in a pitch which was low for a woman’s voice.

“Sorry?” The girl looked away to her till, chewing with open mouthed consistency.

“Long black please” Rhona increased the volume of her speech slightly and continued with her smiling.

The girl looked past her and said in a distracted way, “Look, can you just wait a sec’? I got to… look just hold on will you?” She disappeared into the back of the café.

Rhona turned slightly towards the man beside her and smiled at the space between his elbow and the counter. She said softly “A kitchen crisis I suppose. It doesn’t matter.” When the man made no reply she added, “I can wait.”

An interval of time passed in which she studied the formica counter, the cash register, the menu board and the little metal stands with the plastic order numbers on them. Using her middle finger she made small circles on the place between her eyes before she turned and, with jerky steps, walked away from the counter. She was looking at the floor. Unaware of where she was going, she bumped a girl with her brown leather shoulder bag and a latte was spilt. Hurrying now she passed rapidly through the entrance hall, catching her shoulder on the automatic exit doors before she emerged on the rain-swept porch outside.

There Rhona sheltered beside one of the monumental urns while she dug about in her bag with unsteady hands.

 The man who had been behind her in the café also came and stood under the porch, sheltering there like she was. He said something to her but she so intent on rifling in her bag that she didn’t hear him. He came and stood near to her, not very close, and bent down a little to say “Have you lost something?” The gusty storm wind blew his long grey hair across the lapel of his jacket.

“No….”  Rhona stood up, clutching a bus card. She rearranged her coat to keep off the weather saying “Thanks though.”

“Have you had enough for the day?” The man straightened up to tighten the tie on his pony tail and stood back from her as he spoke, so that she could see his face.

Rhona tipped her hood back a little to look up at him. “Yes…in a way. I …what about you?”

“I work here.” He indicated the swipe card in his long-fingered hand.

“Oh right, well …” She stood holding her coat closed at the neck, gazing at his black boots.

He tried to capture her glance by gesturing to the entrance way and said “I was behind you in the café. I wondered- neither of us got our coffee. Would you..?”

“Thanks all the same …it was just that… no I may as well get back ...I’m Rhona by the way.” Close to, her wary green eyes dominated a pale face.

“Bill.” His smile was meant to reassure and she did look up briefly as she said “Oh.”

 “Look are you really all right?” His tanned face showed real concern. She was still shaking.

“Oh. Yes. No …look it doesn’t matter does it? I’d just better not…”

She raced away in a panicky sort of dash down the stairs and off across the Domain, back towards Parnell Road. Bill Egan watched her run, holding her bag to her side with one hand and her hood in the other.  Stepping back under the porch to shelter better from the weather, he lit a cigarette with an old bakelite flint lighter. Rhona disappeared over the rise, slithering a bit on the wet grass. He pushed up the sleeves of his caramel coloured jacket and leaned comfortably against the stone exterior of the building as he stood smoking.

The first time Bill had seen that woman was when he was working in one of the aisles that led off the Decorative Arts hall. He was up a ladder adjusting the lighting for the new display they had opened there previous day. From that vantage point she was right in his line of vision, facing him but unaware of his presence. He could see her standing with her head on one side, smiling a cat smile to herself, alone. It was the set of her head, all that curling auburn hair, and her expressive stance that made him study her as a subject- that and the fact that she was tiny. Not a dwarf or anything, she was perfectly in proportion, but barely five feet tall he reckoned.

When she came to the Sieffert wine table her whole demeanour changed. She had dropped to a crouch with easy agility, both strong hands to her face, as she studied the marquetry with parted lips. Her hands had slipped up to rake her hair as she stood up effortlessly, stepping back to admire the whole piece. Seconds later he saw her retreat into herself again as she turned away. The bag went back on one shoulder, her hands returned to the rain coat pockets and her shoulders slumped.

Like turning out the lights Bill had thought at the time, recalling the job in hand. In a few minutes he had reset the fixture and gone to return his equipment to the maintenance room. It was morning tea time and he had headed out for coffee. There he had seen her again.

He supposed she would be all right. God knows, she wasn’t your type Bill, he thought, as he drew on the last of the cigarette and wandered to the ashtray in unhurried elegant strides. He moved like a dancer.