A Letter from the Hedgerow; On Finding the Courage to Ask

My mermaid darlings, and dear friends of Stillwater; A Petticoat Society,

Might you come and sit with me a little; I have been thinking about how much courage it can take to ask for something, even when we are quite prepared to hear the word no.

I made a small request recently, politely and without expectation, then found myself feeling rather unsettled afterwards. Perhaps you know that feeling; the temptation to explain a little more, soften what you have said, or reassure someone that you really shall manage perfectly well without anything at all.

I nearly did, then left my words where they were and put the kettle on.

As I reached for my cup, it occurred to me that I was learning something I should like to have known much sooner; I may ask a question without apologising for having a wish.

It sounds such a simple thing, doesn’t it? Yet when you have grown accustomed to considering everyone else first, allowing your own hopes into the conversation can feel surprisingly unfamiliar.

Some of us learnt very early to read the household weather. We noticed a change in someone’s voice, knew when to make ourselves useful, and quietly put away whatever we had intended to ask. After a while, we scarcely needed anyone to tell us that our wishes could wait; we had become quite accomplished at telling ourselves.

In a family shaped by narcissistic tendencies, that unevenness can become part of daily life; one person’s wants receive immediate attention, whilst another learns to approach with care. I find it more useful to notice those patterns than to attempt a diagnosis across the kitchen table; I know how it feels to weigh a harmless question as though the peace of the entire household depends upon it.

There is a little psychology beneath all that carefulness. When childhood places great importance upon being good and avoiding conflict, pleasing others can become a habit which follows us into adulthood. We may continue keeping the peace long after we have acquired the freedom to speak for ourselves. 

And so a woman can send a perfectly courteous message, knowing she has asked nothing unreasonable, then spend the next hour feeling that she ought to retrieve it.

The feeling may belong to an old lesson; it need not decide what she does next.

I think many women will recognise something of themselves here. We receive such encouragement to be thoughtful, accommodating and grateful; lovely qualities, certainly, although somewhere along the way we may begin to believe that goodness requires us to need very little.

We remember everyone’s preferences, arrange the chairs, pour the tea, and hesitate when someone asks what we would like ourselves.

I am beginning to answer that question more honestly.

Part of my hesitation has come from knowing how uncomfortable demands can feel. I have experienced the abrupt instruction, the assumption that my time is available, or the announcement that someone wants a share of something before asking whether I wish to share it.

With particular individuals, it is often the assumption which troubles me; I find myself included in a decision before anyone has thought to ask.

I cannot tell you precisely why they approach things that way. Perhaps they have become accustomed to agreement, perhaps they regard family availability as a given; I can recognise the effect upon me without pretending to know every thought behind it.

What I miss in those moments is the small courtesy of being allowed an answer.

“Would you mind?” makes room for another person.

I want to keep that room in my own relationships, and for a long time I have been so anxious to avoid becoming demanding that I have sometimes said nothing at all.

There is a gentler way to proceed. We can express what we would like while respecting another person’s wishes and choices; that balance is something we can learn through practise. 

I can make a request warmly, allow someone time to consider it, and accept their reply. I can also receive a request and decide what I am willing to give. There is comfort in allowing the same courtesy to travel in both directions.

My Alchemy of Mermaidology® subliminals have become a cherished companion in this work.

Within that quiet practise, I return to kinder thoughts about myself and the life I am creating; I feel it has helped me soften the old habit of expecting disapproval whenever I honour a wish of my own.

I sometimes think of it as rewiring my inner world, although I cannot measure what has changed in my brain. What I can notice are the small differences in my days; I catch an unnecessary apology, speak a little more plainly, and occasionally put down the telephone without sending another paragraph to make myself smaller.

Alongside the listening, I am practising these things in life, where an old belief meets a new choice.

The discomfort still visits, of course. Sometimes I take it into the garden with me and carry on watering.

I am learning that I can feel uncertain for a moment and still leave a thoughtful request standing; I needn’t withdraw my words simply because they have made me feel visible.

And perhaps this is familiar to you too, my darling. Perhaps there is something you have wanted to ask, then dismissed because someone else seemed busier, more important, or more entitled to have a wish.

You needn’t begin with anything grand. Ask for a little help, say which afternoon suits you, or allow yourself to answer truthfully when someone offers you a choice. Give them room to respond, and see whether you can offer yourself the same kindness you would so readily offer a friend.

I would never wish you to sit beside me believing your voice was an inconvenience.

I am trying to remember that when I speak, too.

For now, my message has gone, the kettle has boiled, and there are ordinary things waiting for me about the cottage. I feel rather tender towards the woman who found it difficult to ask, and quietly pleased with the one who asked anyway.

I was stirring out the dough for a batch of buttermilk biscuits in my folks’ cottage this morning, with a little flour on my sleeves and the camera running beside me. I let it run for eleven minutes, and somewhere between stirring the biscuits and putting them in the oven, it occurred to me that this might be what I mean when I speak of letting myself be seen.

I used to think I ought to have something rather more remarkable to share before I invited anyone in. Yet when a friend drops by, I’m generally glad to see her while the kitchen is still in a muddle.

If you fancy a little notion of wisdom now and again, or simply wonder what I’ve been up to of late, do come and find me on Instagram. The biscuit video is there for you (or here) whenever you have a quiet eleven minutes and feel like a bit of company.

Put the kettle on, dear heart. I’ll be in the kitchen.

Most affably yours til my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel

A Dream Need Not Explain Itself

My dear Mermaid Darlings, and the ladies of Stillwater,

I have been thinking about how much time we can spend explaining something we might otherwise be quietly bringing to life, especially when the people about us cannot yet see what we see, and we begin to feel that we must make them understand before we carry on.

In 2019 I remember Sawyer coming to visit whilst I was in the middle of a cottage renovation, and how readily I began explaining where everything would go and what I intended to do, as though I ought to account for the unfinished state of things before he could possibly enjoy being there.

He looked at me and said, “Mum, you don’t need to explain everything. I see what you’re doing, and it’s going to be so cool.”

I have remembered those words with such affection, partly because they were his, but also because he gave me the lovely feeling of being understood whilst everything still stood a little crooked and unfinished about me. He could see that I was making something, and he trusted me to find my way through it without requiring a defence of every decision. 

Nowadays I rarely if ever catch myself explaining and, I think of him, and now I might put that same care into the work itself instead of trying to persuade someone to believe in what I have not yet finished.

Of course, we like the people we love to understand us, and there is nothing unreasonable in wishing that someone might look at our little beginnings with affection. Yet there comes a point when explaining the same dream again leaves us weary, particularly if each conversation attempts to bring us back to the same doubts, with scarcely any time left for the thing we had hoped to accomplish that day.

I learned some time ago to let those conversations rest, and to accept that a person may care for me without sharing my imagination, just as I may care for them without asking them to approve every turn my life takes. I can listen to thoughtful advice and still return to my own work with my judgement intact, allowing what I make to introduce itself in its own time.

The people who feel at home with it have a better chance of finding me if I continue, and I should rather spend an afternoon making something lovely than rehearsing another explanation of why I wish to make it at all.

Even so, I have had to learn that giving my time to a dream does not require me to hurry through the rest of my life, although for many years I behaved as though everything pleasant waited somewhere beyond the next completed task.

Before my dear boy chap Sawyer died, I was forever trying to get things achieved and finished, imagining that I would feel settled once I had caught up, put everything in order, or worked quite hard enough to deserve an afternoon of ease. Somehow, whenever I approached that promised afternoon, I discovered another job that seemed to require my immediate attention, and the rest I had intended to take slipped politely out of reach.

People would tell me that I needed to relax and enjoy myself, and although I understood what they meant, I scarcely knew how to begin when sitting still left me feeling that I ought to be useful. I had carried from childhood the belief that I must earn my place by making myself useful, and with so little faith in my own worth, I scarely knew when I had given enough; I would offer more than I could comfortbaly spare, then search my pockets for some last little kindness, as though I still owed something for the simple priviledge of being there. 

I could sit in a chair whilst mentally working my way through the house, finding things to mend, rearrange or improve, until I had quite exhausted myself without moving very far at all.

I had become so accustomed to earning my keep each day that I struggled to imagine feeling worthy of kindness when I had little to show for my hours.

I suspect some of you will recognise that feeling, particularly if you learnt early to be helpful, undemanding, or very good at getting on with things, and carried those habits into a life where nobody quite knew how much they cost you.

In my own case, keeping busy also spared me from spending much time with feelings I did not know what to do with, because there was always a cupboard to sort or a project to begin whenever an uncomfortable thought approached. I could give my hands something to manage and postpone the quieter business of admitting that, beneath all my efforts, I felt deeply unhappy.

After losing Sawyer, I began to understand how much of my life I had hurried through whilst trying to make it satisfactory, and how easily I had postponed the ordinary pleasures that might have sustained me along the way.

I still love making things, and anyone who has seen the cottage will know that I have gathered enough projects to keep myself occupied for a considerable while, but I want to enjoy living here whilst the work continues. I want to notice a cat settling beside me, hear the ducks conducting their afternoon affairs, and admire the zinnias without immediately deciding that I ought to weed beneath them.

There is something rather lovely about drinking a cup of tea whilst it is still warm, especially when one has spent years setting it down beside a task and remembering it only after it has gone quite cold.

Perhaps this is part of what draws me towards the older rhythms I associate with Britain and parts of Europe, where I have so often admired the willingness to linger over a visit or give an ordinary pleasure its proper time. I would not presume that everyone there lives this way, any more than every American rushes about as I once did, but I feel an affection for that unhurried manner and the respect it seems to offer the day.

I have also noticed how easily we can turn slow living into another undertaking to perfect, filling our hours with all the things we believe will make life gentler until we scarcely have a moment left to enjoy the gentleness we set out to find.

I say this with affection, for I can still catch myself making a list so ambitious that the woman expected to complete it would have very little opportunity to sit in the garden she has worked so hard to create.

I do not imagine that anyone will read a few words from your dear ole razzie and suddenly know how to set aside habits she has carried for most of her life, especially when there are people and animals to care for, bills to pay, and work that truly does need doing. I only hope that sharing a little of my own experience might make it easier to recognise the moments when we ask more of ourselves than the day reasonably requires.

Perhaps there is one harmless thing we could leave until tomorrow, or a small pleasure we could enjoy without first completing something else, allowing ourselves to discover that the afternoon holds together perfectly well when we loosen our grip a little.

My Alchemy of Mermaidology subliminals belong to this same wish for a gentler and more joyful life, and if you enjoy listening, I hope they offer a quiet companion whilst you practise allowing kinder thoughts to become familiar. I speak of these things because I remember how unpleasant it felt to live beneath my own constant scrutiny, always trying harder and finding fault whenever my efforts fell short of the impossible standard I had set.

These days, I would like to give my dreams the patience I give something growing in the garden, tending them faithfully whilst allowing myself to enjoy what has already taken root.

When I think again of Sawyer standing amongst the renovation, I remember how easily he let me feel hopeful about it all, and how little he needed me to explain before he offered his encouragement. I should like to carry more of that kindness into the way I speak to myself, especially on the days when everything takes longer than I expected and the finished picture remains mine alone to see.

If you are making a life that others do not yet understand, I hope you will give yourself that kindness too, and leave a little time amongst the making for the life you are already in.

Most affably yours til my next enchanting swim, Lady raquel