Sometimes you find a piece of wisdom that you hold in your heart to be more true than the ranks of other bullshit that you’ve convinced yourself were true. It’s usually a surprise, often it’s a cliché. You feel a bit sucker-punched when you get it, and the world is both validated and invalidated like the chunking punch of a time card.

I had one such moment in Scotland.

The dinner the first night was a posh affair. All of us dressed up in our finery, the air scented with whiskey, men lined up in white jackets who, upon us entering the room, already knew our names. A drink and canapés somehow wound up in our hands, served on a delicate white napkin.

I felt apprehensive about the evening, as I feel apprehensive about all things people. People make me nervous, as though somehow theyÂ’ll just asses me and realize that IÂ’m an imposter, IÂ’m not really alive. I always worry IÂ’ll say the wrong thing, look the wrong way, be the wrong person. I also felt nervous being around the older people because (I'm going to be honest here) old people make me nervous. I worry I will break them, or (worse) wind up being one of Those Old Ladies in a home. You know the ones-the ones no one comes to visit, and no one notices when they die. One of Those.

The couples were all married (some of them for over 50 years) and all much older than I. To the last, they were all retired. Two couples were Scottish, two couples were English. Then there was Angus and I, the only divorcees in the room (me, twice. The shame of it.) We were the unmarrieds, the young, the still working.

One of the women strode up to me. “Do I know you?”

Clutching my drink tighter, I smiled. “I don’t think so,” I chirped. “I don’t recognize you.”

“Ah,” she said, taking me in. “I think it’s because you’re beautiful, I know many beautiful people.” I blinked and before I could speak, she walked away. She didn't come up to me again for the rest of the evening, and I felt like thanking her for saying something strangely nice to me, anyway.

Another woman came up to me before dinner, smiling. With short grey hair and a fabulous slick of burgundy lipstick, she introduced herself as Susan in her thick Glaswegian accent. Her husband David sat in a chair nearby, two canes needed to help him walk. He had a strong patrician profile and blue eyes that screamed of intelligence. A retired solicitor, he was a whiskey fan awaiting the second of a desperately needed hip transplant.

And Susan and I got on thick as thieves.

The couples mixed up at the dinner table, and I was sat between Susan and a retired chemical engineer. The chemical engineer, named Stan, was one of the wittiest men IÂ’ve met in a long time. We talked about everything-GM crops, the environment, technology. He was great company.

When Stan and I werenÂ’t having a gab fest, Susan and I talked. Susan had recently retired herself. She had spent her life raising their children and when they left home she dedicated her life to helping her local hospital. She spent over 30 years being a tea lady, which is someone that runs a tiny cafeteria (their hospital was too small for a full-sized cafeteria) and donates the profits to charity.

Over the years, she tells me, sheÂ’s seen everyone and everything. Once Billy Connelly came in and they talked a long time. If someone had lost a friend or loved one, theyÂ’d get their tea for free, as well as her shoulder to cry on. If someone had a celebration, they got a piece of cake. She didnÂ’t do it for the money, she did it for the people.

But her charity was not without notice. The Queen personally awarded her an MBE (Member of the British Empire) a few years ago for her contributions, for although Susan saved the souls of many and caffenated the veins of men and women, her tea stand awarded the hospital with over £1.6 million in donations. She seems embarrassed, as though it wasn’t enough. I am in awe of a person like her, a person with a heart big enough to love all people and give them a cup of tea as well.

But itÂ’s what Susan tells me that reaches into me and takes hold.

I want, more than anything, to be made of more than just chicken wire at that moment.

The next morning we all have breakfast together. David sits next to me and we talk. Although he is in pain from his hips, his mind is crystal clear. He sends us in stitches with his tales and he knows his whiskies, as he regales us with many stories from various drink ups in distilleries. As we all say our goodbyes, he hugs me. “Don’t ever put your hair up again,” he says in his strong Glasgow accent. “Your hair looked fine last night, but it’s meant to hang down. And don’t ever cut it.”

I smile. “I won’t,” I promise him. And for the rest of my stay in Scotland, the hair did stay down.

And Susan-Susan also hugged me and reminded me of what weÂ’d talked about last night.

“Helen,” Susan smiled. “You seem to travel a lot.”

“Oh yes, we do,” I replied. “We both love to travel.”

“I think that’s so wonderful.” She glanced across the table at David, who was deep in conversation. “We used to spend our lives traveling. We’ve been everywhere-Africa, Australia, South America, the States…We’ve done so much, even lived overseas. And now, as we get older, we can look back on where we’ve been and what we’ve done with no regrets.”

She looks at me. “That’s what it’s about, you know. It’s about living with no regrets. Life is an adventure, Helen. It’s about taking chances that you didn’t know you could take. It’s about seeing what you can and going where you can. You’ll make mistakes, but mistakes lead you to new roads. Adventures lead you to where you need to be.”

I stare at her, my wineglass in my hand.

“Are you where you need to be?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. I think I am. I may be. I think of my own adventures-sunsets in New Zealand, sky diving, the lights over Stockholm, the blue domes of Santorini, the feel of Balinese sand and the calm of Belize waters. Broken hearts in Texas, Stockholm, fulfillment in England. My adventures do keep me going. My adventures, they sometimes make my life better.

“Someday you will settle somewhere and live your life out calmly. But for now, say yes to chances and adventure. You’ll not regret it,” Susan says. "Regret makes us old. Life...life is about adventures. Live them as wildly as you can, and you will die having truly lived."

And sheÂ’s right.

It is about saying yes. It's so utterly fucking cliché, but she was right. I'm not there yet, that life is not my life, but she...she was beautiful in ways I could never pinpoint. I fuck up constantly. I regret it now, too-the youth that was Helen never used to, she'd shrug and say regret was too much hassle. The people I loved and lost, the people I hurt or who hurt me, the sheer staggering embarrassment I constantly felt in giving a piece of me to someone who doesn't deserve it, well those are mistakes that I chain up and swear Never Again. Life right now certainly is not great, but maybe I need to quit pushing it away, and accept it's part of the adventure (hopefully not of the reality series variety).

But this goes against what Susan's advising, and there's something in Susan that screams exhiliaration to me.

The Tea Lady From Glasgow was the embodiment of loving life without regret, of giving your heart without fear. Life was a great adventure, a path she walked on with her husband, whose amble was once unmarked by pain. Stories are written about her type of character, and they always involve the brave winning, the victor vanquishing, the redemption of karma being more than just a 5% coupon off a box of Hot Pockets.

My hero is a Tea Lady From Glasgow.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 03:05 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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1 Again, I was transported into your writing and could fell your emotions. Keep it up!

Posted by: Dave T. at October 17, 2006 04:21 PM (hkvGr)

2 Here's to living a life worth living. Cheers!

Posted by: Barnaby at October 17, 2006 05:28 PM (mTNES)

3 I spent most my life holding back in relationships. I thought that if I let them inside they would find nothing. I finally did, and I was judged and rejected, I was devastated and life went on. A few months later I said yes to a blind date. I didn't feel like saying yes, but I went. 8 months later we were married - he is the most loving, kind man I have ever met and he brings out the best of me.

Posted by: Sara at October 17, 2006 06:36 PM (kuvvW)

4 beautiful. thank you.

Posted by: anna at October 18, 2006 10:13 AM (yqelu)

5 Excellent and thought provoking post. That's part of why I've read you for the last couple of years. You hear songs that lament not doing more in one's youth and songs like Charlene's "I've Never Been to Me" that lament doing too much and not settling down. Not sure there's any way around all regret nor that we should aspire to that. As we get older (and presumably wiser , we realize some decisions weren't smart and we regret them. It's an emotion that can encourage us to correct a bad decision we made earlier. And if the decision is uncorrectable, regret can guide us to a better decision next time. But I agree we shouldn't focus too much on uncorrectable regret.

Posted by: Solomon at October 18, 2006 01:20 PM (k1sTy)

6 I can only hope to be that kind of person... I'm working through my own issues to be that kind of person one day.

Posted by: amber at October 18, 2006 02:29 PM (5PLeA)

7 My personal mantra isn't "It's not an adventure if you don't get lost" for nothing. I'm glad that sweet and wonderful sounding woman was able to reach in and touch a piece of you. Okay, that sounded a bit creepy, but you know what I meant.

Posted by: amy t. at October 18, 2006 03:21 PM (+FpFc)

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