Finding Myself in Unexpected Places

The year before last I received a scholarship that enabled me to study abroad in Scotland and Ireland for two weeks out of the summer. The journey was both very exciting and highly emotional for me. I remember I was sitting in the front seat of a cab in Ireland one sunny afternoon discussing this with the driver. In Ireland, it is not uncommon to find yourself squeezed in the front passenger side of a vehicle with nothing between you and the driver but a gearshift. I imagine these men could get pretty fresh if they chose in those tight little vehicles, but luckily for me they were all unbelievably charming. This particular driver introduced himself as “Billy,” and was an older gent with white hair and twinkling blue eyes.

“So what brings you to Ireland, me dear?” he asked genially.

“I’m studying abroad,” I explained, “But I guess I’d be lying if I said I were here for any other reason than that I’ve never travelled anywhere in my entire life and jumped at the opportunity. I’d never even been on a plane before!”

“She’s ridiculously enthusiastic about everything!” announced Mary, an older and more travelled member of our group, from the backseat. “Why, yesterday, when it was pouring out, she was dancing in the rain and yelling, ‘At least it’s pouring on me in Ireland!’”

Billy beamed at me. “Ah, now tat’s ta spirit!” He gazed out at the road and his eyes got kind of misty-like as he added, “I came here to Galway on holiday as a young man, and I never went back…”

“I’ve heard that from no less than five people this week,” I marveled.

Billy smiled, and with a twinkle of his eye informed me, “Ah, well, t’ere was a t’ird party involved!”

I smiled back, detecting a hint of romance. “And who was that?”

“Me girlfriend,” he said impressively, “Now me wife of over forty years. Now tell me, what have you seen outside of America so far?”

“Scotland,” I told him, "We were there last week."

“Ah, yes,” he said, “My grandfather was Scottish, don’t you know.”

“So was mine!” I exclaimed, as if the world were indeed very small after all. “My grandfather was Scottish, and my grandmother was Irish, and it’s said that they fought a lot – I can’t think why.”

Billy was well pleased with this, and said, “I might have known ye was one of us, for Heather t’is a Scottish name. A pleasure speaking with you, miss. Here is your stop.”

He let us off at our destination, which was actually just a stop for an Irish tour bus that was going to take us to see the sights.

All of my life I’ve kind of hated my name. In every classroom throughout school there was always at least one other Heather – in one class there had notably been three others. I became known as Heather H, and never felt as if I had a name of my own. My parents swore that the name had struck them as unique at the time they had chosen it.

“It’s a weed,” my dad told me, not very helpfully, “They grow all over the place in Europe – England, I think.”

A weed.

Figured.

And so I progressed through school, a common weed, and struggled to stand out and overcome what I felt was the stigma of a common name – the stigma of large family with three sisters and a brother and never enough to go around and never a chance to stand out in the shuffle – yet for some reason I came to Scotland and I thought one day of the heather out on the moors. I looked everywhere for it, but had no idea what it might look like. People were always trodding all over it in Jane Austin novels and such, so I imagined it must look something like ragweed.

The Wild Wickelow Bus arrived at last, manned by a dashing fellow by the name of Stephen. He was hysterical – kept making cracks about being from a large Irish family. Before the bus got going, I told him shyly that my name was Heather. “My parents tell me it’s a weed,” I told him. “Is it possible you might be able to point some out to me during the tour?”

Stephen’s laugh came out like a bark. “Oh, you’ll be seeing a bit of heather on this ride,” he assured me casually.

Stephen drove us over hills and dales all over Wickelow county, telling stories and jokes and sharing the rich history and poetry of his land until suddenly the fields blossomed with fairies and legends and also something much more to me. Out in the blackest of bogs, where naked, blue-painted men once sunk the bodies of their enemies in the grimy pitch, there now blossomed patches of endless purple and gold. “The yellow flowers are the gorse,” Stephen explained, “and the purple – the purple t’is the heather.”

The heather.

Miles and miles of bright purple bursts among the dark pete – and it was beautiful.

My throat tightened and tears sprang to my eyes, because it was so much more than a mass of weeds on the roadside. They were common, I could see that – but look how lovely and how very unlikely all the same. They thrived here on the dark and the muck, and it was not despite the adversity that they grew and were beautiful, but because of it. That is not so common as it is a miracle, and all the more rare because we so seldom notice it there.

When I stepped off the bus at the end of our journey, Stephen smiled gallantly and said, “Goodbye – Heather,” and gave me a wink. My name had never sounded so lovely as it did at that moment. Like the heather upon the moors, I bloom where I am planted.