LIKE MOST SEVEN-YEAR-OLDS, I adored my first teacher, seeing her as infinitely superior in her elevated position of authority, appointed to dispel the darkness of our ignorance.

Every word uttered by her, every scrap of knowledge she imparted, I lapped up as if it was mother's milk.

One day she introduced us to the concept of origin. "All you see around you in this class-room," she declared, "has been something else before." Now, as we pointed out different things to her, she would explain how they had started out.

A lot of pointing ensued: This desk, we learnt, had once been a tree growing in the forest... just like the copy-book... That school-bag was made from the hide of a cow... the sweater had been knitted from sheep's wool... And so on.

Thankful for an opportunity to clarify the background of an object that had long mystified me, I pointed to the bakelite electric socket.

The teacher blanched. For a moment she seemed at a loss for words. Then she composed herself and said, in a loud didactic voice: "That socket used to be... er... er... It's imported. That's it. From Africa. It grows there, on a very rare bush. Next, please."

From that moment I have never trusted authority.

Women said to marry well often marry badly. I pity any bride who receives congratulations on having captured an eligible man. For this implies that she has somehow got more than she deserves; that her groom had been expected to attract something better.

Whether it is looks, age, wealth or education, background, status or any other mundane criteria, by which the world measures human value, the message comes across clearly: she is lucky; he is not.

It doesn't augur well for the woman's future. She'll be condemned to a life-long struggle trying to prove them all wrong: showing her husband's family and friends that he didn't make a mistake in choosing her.

The battle is hard to win, for no amount of hard work, self sacrifice or moral rectitude will ever change the facts of her beginnings; gain her the esteem initially denied her.

She will always have difficulty asserting herself, even within her own family. Children detect such weakness and are quick to take advantage, which will further undermine her. Think of any spoilt, indulged or unruly children you know. Aren't they usually the product of a mother unsure of her role in the home?

It's interesting how this trap, in which so many women are caught, does not seem to swallow up men.

All one can say is: No woman should be allowed to marry, before she knows her own full worth.

From the Section On Intimacy

Proponents of the 1960s sexual revolution had a noble aim in mind: to liberate us all from the age-old tyranny of insipid morality, religious condemnation, secrecy and shame, repression, guilt and inhibition.

Love was the new currency, intimacy a birthright, to be enjoyed along with carnal pleasures and made freely available as a healthy, natural means of expression.

Loneliness would be a thing of the past, every type of relationship respected; physical and emotional fulfilment available to all, with no fear of disapproval or exclusion.

Little did these humanitarians anticipate that, before long, their idealistic concept would b hi-jacked by commercial interests and used for crass material ends with no regard for any values other than financial.

Today, sex is a prime marketing tool exceeding all others. From all directions it is forced on to an unsuspecting public, sparing no one, not even little children, from the delusion that nothing but your sexuality gives you a place in the world.

How can anybody be expected to withstand this onslaught, brain-washed as we are to accept as the real thing casual couplings or mindless drunken encounters; and to live with the consequences of increased sexual violence and diseases, children who should never have been born, abuse, confusion and deviation, not to mention emotions laid waste?

Good-bye intimacy. Hello loneliness.

From the Section On Feelings

A Connemara hotelier wrote a furious letter to the County Manager complaining that, in his area, renowned for outstanding natural beauty, major road repairs were consistently carried out in the height of the tourist season. If this wasn't sabotage, he growled, it was an example of extreme professional insensitivity.

The County Engineer replied, politely and regretfully, explaining that, given the Irish climate, they had no option but to repair the roads in the summer, as otherwise the tar wouldn't set.

The hotel owner laughed when he told the story. "Years of anger and frustration - and all due to my own ignorance!"

I was reminded of a man I knew, whose childhood had been overshadowed by the fact that, aged eight, he had been dispatched to relatives in the country, while his mother underwent treatment for cancer. To spare the boy, nothing was said about the cause for his removal.

He suffered through many weeks, assuming that he must have done something terrible to forfeit the right to his home and to his parents' love. Even after he grew up and got his facts straight, the feeling of rejection persisted.

It's staggering to think that, even as we speak, countless lives and relationships are being ruined by virulent, destructive feelings generated by pure misconceptions.

If only everyone ensured that they were properly informed before allowing a feeling to take root, the world wouldn't be full of fools barking up the wrong tree!

From the Section On Life

Like many others, I am hooked on the dreaded Sudoku. No day is complete without the solution of at least one of these wordless puzzles.

What is it about the Sudoku that makes it so addictive? Eighty-one squares, like so many days ahead (or years, hours or minutes), some offering clues to the perfect formula, others empty, waiting to be filled, methodically, meticulously, with your choice of numbers, each the unequivocal outcome of the one that went before.

As with all exercises in logic, you know when you've got it right. But God help you if you mess up. One lapse - and the whole thing collapses. Then you have to retrace your steps, find the error of your ways, make suitable amends, often with considerable effort. It must be done - to avoid the dismal failure of having to abandon a stranded Sudoku.

You soon learn that with a cool head, a clear focus and steady concentration, such disasters need not happen. Even with the diabolical variety: complex labyrinths of thought, rife with false trails and red herrings, instinct usually brings you home.

The Sudoku: ideally pure and simple, a beautifully balanced weave, where all is interconnected, transparent, self-confirming; nothing left to chance.

Why can't life be like that? But then, who says it couldn't?

When you look back on your past, how many black holes do you detect? Periods of your life too dark, too painful, or perhaps too shameful to remember?

We all have them. It's a natural instinct to try to protect our equilibrium by ignoring memories that hurt. What could possibly be gained from dwelling on past distress? Surely it's healthier to look forward, with faith, and hope, and optimism, to better things ahead?

But the pain buried deep inside does not go away. It festers, like a foul abscess, spreading its poison, causing no less damage because you choose to neglect it. Wounds need light and air to heal. They'll never do so unless they are brought to the surface.

What's more important: each significant life experience, no matter how traumatic, contains something of value: if nothing else, a measure of added depth and insight. To bury that, along with the other stuff, means depriving yourself of vital personal components that you can't afford to be without.

I've learnt from my own experience. Until quite recently, my past was full of black holes. Exploring them I know can be daunting, difficult and not without danger.

But by God, it's rewarding.

From the Section On Goodness

"How can these things happen?" I asked a weathered professional soldier, who had been all over the world seeing evidence of more atrocities than most. "How does evil get such a hold as to make them possible?"

"Many go along with it out of fear," he replied. "Close their eyes rather than risk their life or that of loved ones."

"But the ones who instigate them?" I contended. "Are they never troubled by such a thing as conscience?"

He smiled reflectively and then he said: "I've come to the conclusion that there is no goodness inherent in the human race. Humanity is more like a fertile soil where anything can grow. Seeds of every kind abound, from the loveliest blossom to poisonous plants and weeds that choke everything in their path.

"Civilisation is the facility we have for turning our land into a beautiful garden. It tells us what's worth cultivating, what needs fertilizing or pruning, and what should be uprooted and destroyed.

"However, once you adopt a regime that, for reasons of its own, advocates or even tolerates the wrong kind of growth, it goes out of control very quickly, resulting in wilderness and, ultimately, a waste land.

"It has always happened and will happen, again and again, anytime, anywhere, if we as gardeners don't do our job of carefully tending what we've been given."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ann Henning Jocelyn grew up in her native Sweden and finished her education in England. Whilst still a student she had an early playwright debut, and worked in London as a literary translator, introducing authors such as Ruth Rendell, Kazuo Ishiguro and Joanna Trollope to Swedish readers. Since the mid 1980s, having married fellow-author Robert Jocelyn, Earl of Roden, she has been based in the West of Ireland, writing full-time. Eight books and four stage plays have been published/produced in a number of countries. Her greatest success to date is the Connemara Whirlwind Trilogy, which hit the Irish bestseller list in 1990 and is still going strong, with numerous editions to its name.

She is also active as a broadcaster in Ireland and Sweden. The first volume of Keylines, a compilation of her "thoughts for the day", broadcast as A Living Word on Ireland's Radio 1, was published by Doonreaghan Press in 2000 and excerpts have appeared in a number of anthologies. The Swedish version, published by the Bonnier Group in 2001, was book of the month in one of their main book clubs. In Germany, Lebenslinien was published to great acclaim in 2005, and in Portugal Linhas Mestras came out the same year. The French version, L'arbre de vie, was published in September 2006.

For more information, see www.annhenningjocelyn.com.