O Wise Woman — Steeped Lessons of Love, Tea, and Grace

Come closer, dear friend, and let us pour a cup together, for today my thoughts are full of the wisest woman I ever knew -- my mother. Though she held no grand title nor penned any treatise, her wisdom shone as brightly as any scholar's lantern. Her domain was the parlour, and there she ruled with nothing more than a kind word and a steady hand upon the teapot.

It was she who first taught me that the parlour is not simply a room, but a stage upon which courtesy and kindness may shine. I remember watching, as a girl, how she would rise the very moment a caller was announced, her smile blooming warmer than the fire upon the grate. With a few simple words -- 'Pray, sit, the kettle is nearly ready' -- she could transform a stranger into a welcome guest. To her, hospitality was not performance, but instinct; she made all who crossed our threshold feel that they belonged.

I recall, too, the first time she placed a china cup in my hands. 'Warm it first, Harriet,' she said gently, guiding my fingers, 'for tea, like friendship, dislikes a chill welcome.' How seriously I took that lesson, as though I had been entrusted with a great secret! Indeed, it was her way to clothe wisdom in such little rituals, so that one learned without quite knowing one was being taught.

On winter afternoons she would brew Morning Tea, strong and brisk, while I practised my penmanship by the fire. She claimed its steadying strength was best for 'thinking clearly and writing neatly.' In the evenings she preferred gentler infusions -- rose or chamomile -- teaching me that each tea had its hour, as each duty had its time.

Clara, who was then only a slip of a girl assisting in the scullery, still laughs that she, too, learned tea craft at my mother's side. 'Your mother never made me feel a servant,' she told me years later. 'She showed me how to pour as though I were pouring for a queen.' That was her gift -- to raise even the simplest act into ceremony, and to make all who took part feel noble in it.

In our parlour, conversation was a lesson also. My mother believed that talk, like tea, must never be rushed. 'Listen, my child,' she would whisper, 'for in another's words you may hear the shape of their heart.' I sat many an afternoon at her knee, absorbing not only the tales themselves, but the gentle art of patience -- of letting thoughts steep until they were ready to be shared. To this day, I cannot hear the soft clink of teaspoon against china without recalling her voice, calm and low, drawing out the shyest guest until laughter bloomed.

How well I remember one summer evening when Cousin Charlotte, then a timid young girl, visited us. My mother coaxed her from silence by asking about her embroidery, listening with such genuine interest that Charlotte, who so rarely spoke, became animated and bright-eyed. Later she confided to me, 'Your mother made me feel clever.' Such was her talent: to listen so fully that others discovered their own worth.

And then there were her maxims -- little pearls dropped so lightly into the stream of daily life that only later did I understand their weight. 'Grace and gentleness are never wasted,' she once told me, as she bound a posy of roses for the table. Another time, smoothing a linen cloth, she said, 'A household well-tended is a kindness, not a duty.' Such phrases seemed small at the time, yet now they ring in my ears like church bells -- steady, reassuring, full of truth.

She also taught the wisdom of pauses. 'Do not be afraid of silence,' she once told me, when I fretted over a lull in conversation. 'It is in the quiet that hearts most often speak.' How often I have found this true in my own parlour, when silence wraps companions in comfort far richer than words.

Neighbours still speak of her as though she were an old hymn remembered from childhood. Mrs. Pembroke often says she cannot pass our garden gate without thinking of the summer afternoons when my mother would wave her in for a cup, never mind the hour. 'Your dear mother,' she often declares, her hat tilting precariously as she leans forward, 'could make even a drizzle seem like a holiday if there was tea in her pot!'

Even Clara, who was but a maid in those days, recalls with wonder how mistress treated her with the same courtesy as any lady caller. 'She made me feel,' Clara once confided, 'as though my presence mattered.' Surely that is wisdom of the rarest kind.

Oh wise woman -- I owe her more than I can ever repay. Though she is no longer beside me, I find her in every familiar motion: in the folding of a napkin, the turning of a teaspoon, the way sunlight plays across a teacup. Each cup I pour seems to echo with her laughter, each guest I welcome feels somehow like her guest too.

When I brew French Earl Grey for afternoon visitors, scattering its petals into the pot, I remember her delight in beauty -- how she would always garnish even the simplest cake with violets or rose leaves, not for display, but for the joy of pleasing others. When I sip Fields of Gold chamomile in the stillness of night, I remember her gentle wisdom, soothing anxieties as surely as the tea soothes the mind.

So on this Mother's Day, I raise my cup not only to my own dear mother, but to all who pour wisdom so quietly into the lives of others. May their lessons, like fine tea, be steeped long and savoured well.

If you, too, wish to honour such a woman, let it be not only with gifts from shops, but with the gifts she herself gave you: time, care, and presence. Sit beside her with a pot of tea, listen with patience, offer her the comfort of your company. These are the treasures no coin may purchase, but every heart cherishes.