Being a Mentor

Being a mentor myself to others comes in different ways.

In my maturity, several young women who encountered me online have asked me to mentor them. I told each, ‘I’ll do my best. Ask me any questions you like, and meanwhile here are the links to my blogs.’ None has asked a lot of questions, all have asked some. I express an honest opinion when asked, and applaud any good things they do for themselves. I don't feel I have been especially helpful, but they tell me that I am – which I’m glad of – and assure me of their gratitude. I rather think their own willingness to put themselves in the way of learning and growth, actually seeking it out, is as crucial as anything I may say.

Another thing that happens in my life is that I am sometimes given a job to do by the Universe. I know that the Universe is the source of them by the way they come about – and by a sort of feeling I get, an energetic signature which I recognise. (That's too hard to try and describe, and I suspect it’s personal and subjective anyway.) In one sense, I’m always working for the Universe, in everything I do. But there are also these special jobs. They don’t happen all that often, but it’s exciting when they do. Not all of them are mentoring jobs, but some have been.

I think particularly of a seven-year-old boy called Joshua. Andrew and I were renting what had been built as a granny flat over a family home. The house had also become a rental property owned by the same absentee landlord. We’d had the dickens of a time finding a place to rent, after being given notice by our previous landlords whose daughter needed a home. Rentals were hard to find in our area at that time, so it made sense to them to offer her the one they had – which meant we had to go. But where to? It took weeks, but finally the granny flat became available. It was less than ideal, but we were desperate by then. Now I look back and believe it was engineered.

The downstairs tenants, a family with two teenagers and two younger kiddies, were friendly and welcoming. The oldest boy had left school and had a job, but the other children sometimes used to come upstairs and talk to Andrew and me. That's when we first realised how good youngsters are with computers. Andrew couldn’t figure out how to use Photoshop. Joshua asked if he could have a go and, not having encountered it before, had it mastered in a few minutes.

I can’t remember how he learned that I was a witch. Perhaps he heard someone else speculating about it, because I remember him asking me if I was. I answered him with an honest yes, and he immediately asked if I would teach him to do magic.

‘Only if your parents give permission,’ I said. He raced downstairs and came back almost at once. 

‘Dad says OK, as long as you don't teach me any bad magic.’ Then he looked at me with big round blue eyes and said with absolute trust, ‘You wouldn't do that, would you, Rosemary?’

‘Of course I wouldn’t, Joshua,’ I said.

Then I had to figure out what to teach a seven-year-old. What would be useful to him? What could he cope with? 

That was 15 years ago. I don't remember all the details now. I imagine I taught him psychic protection. I know I taught him how to get yes or no answers to questions. I would definitely have taught him how to summon up unconditional love and to work only in that energy. I do recall that we had some great conversations. He was a bright boy, and a beautiful soul.

Then suddenly all sorts of things brought the lessons to an end. There was a cooling between the two sets of adults: Andrew and me on one side, and Joshua's parents on the other – not because of the lessons but due to some differences as neighbours. It wasn't an outright row, but it was harder to be civil and we were no longer pally. 

Then I put my foot through one of the steps up to our flat – old timber, not well maintained – and nearly followed it with my whole body! At least that got some action from the very neglectful estate agent, to whom we had complained several times already, but it did nothing to help us feel happy and settled.

Then the landlord, who lived in England, paid a visit to Australia, inspected his property, and decided he'd like to visit more often and to stay in our flat when he did. This meant he needed to keep it empty, so we were given notice again. 

'Oh well,' I thought, 'I must have taught Joshua everything he needs to know for now.'

In the end, Joshua's family vacated the premises even before we did. They never said why; they were there, and then suddenly, very quickly, gone. Perhaps they had received notice too.

Our whole tenancy of the granny flat lasted only six months.

That's the way of my jobs for the Universe. They arrive in front of me serendipitously, in circumstances which make it easy and almost inevitable that I'll take them on. And they come with a great sense of excitement which makes me want to take them on – so much so that while they last I realise that all the things I usually think my life is about are merely pastimes. Working for the Universe – THAT'S what I live for! 

And then, when a particular job is over, the circumstances that make it possible alter abruptly. The job comes to a sudden stop. It may be days or years before the next one is placed before me. (More usually years.) In the meantime I have my interesting life and absorbing pastimes. And I have the faint memory of that special excitement; the expectation that it is waiting for me again, down the track.

Joshua was a lovely young lad. I'd love to find out some day what became of him, what he's up to. But I never ran across that family again, and I don't expect I shall. I can make a very strong guess that he himself must have some work to do for the Universe, in time. The lessons he had with me must, in some way I can’t know, have helped prepare him.