A Reflection on Integrity, Community, and the Quiet Strength of Truth

"In a world where imitation may flourish, truth alone roots itself deep, and in time, all gardens reveal their true gardeners."~Raquel M Carter

My Dear Mermaid Darlings,

I step forward now, to call into focus even though it may not enhance my popularity; not with anger but with the bright and unshakable torch of truth in my hand.

I have borne many burdens willingly, and although 'willingly' doesn't mean they haven't weighed heavily.

 
To speak plainly, even when it unsettles the comfortable illusions of others, is not an act of malice — it is an act of love toward oneself and a duty to the sacred laws of integrity.

For too long, I cloaked my knowing in silence, hoping goodwill alone could mend what only truth could cleanse.

But the soul, like a noble garden, cannot thrive beneath the shadows of falsehood.
Thus, I choose now to stand fully in the sunlight, name what has been, and honour the path my heart has walked — with courage, kindness, and the deep and specific knowledge that truth, though sometimes unsettling, is always a healer.

In the fullness of time, it is not silence that protects the spirit but the brave and graceful speaking of one’s own bright, unalterable story.
There is a peculiar beauty that lies in the heart of small towns — a tapestry woven of familiarity, legacy, and the earnest dreams of its folk.

In these past years, I have always hoped to offer my heart’s devotion to preserving our beloved Chinsegut Hill and flowering cultural life within our village of Brooksville, Florida.

I came not as a critic nor a seeker of laurels but as a humble daughter of heritage — a Weeki Wachee Springs Mermaid, an artist, an illustrator, and above all, a believer in the gentle might of history to heal and inspire.
Yet, alas, fair hopes are not always met with fair reception.

Again and again, my attempts to volunteer, lend my artistry and spirit, and offer even the treasures of my private networks for the prosperity of our community were quietly turned aside without cause or courtesy.
My Phone calls vanished into silence. They cast aside the proposals I had woven with care and vision, only to gather them up later and present them as works not born of my hand.

Offers to contribute — not for personal profit but out of sheer love for Chinsegut Hill — were left unanswered or, worse, overlooked with the barest civility.

And now, with the clarity that faithful perseverance bestows, the pattern stands revealed: the lifting of ideas, the echoing of words once penned from my own hand, and the curious stirring of shadows about my name, where goodwill ought to have bloomed.

It is with a spirit of candour — and not of bitterness — that I must observe:
One Natalie Kahler has, most peculiarly, found herself a frequent heir of such ideas — not through her own sowing but through careful gleaning of the labours of others.

Posts once imagined in the quiet of my study, proposals once whispered in earnest to sleeping walls, now find life in unfamiliar hands.

Even among the hedgerows of our dear village, whispers speak of seeds sown — not of gardens of goodwill, but of suspicion and exclusion when another’s light unsettles the shadows in others.
It grieves me to speak thus, yet speak I must.
For there comes a time when the quiet and earnest heart must make itself heard with dignity and light.

I bear no bitterness toward those who, in their own unseen struggles, find it easier to borrow than to build.

Indeed, I wish Mrs Kahler — and all who have feared my presence — a future filled with the joy of their own honest labours. However, let it be known here, as surely as the sun rises:

I see with clarity. I stand in my own truth. I walk forward with an unshaken spirit.

And when one walks in truth, one does not tremble at the mutterings of passing shadows.
Chinsegut Hill does not call for keepers of ambition; she calls for a soul to love her back to life.

She does not need mere administrators but stewards of heart and hearth.

And with or without the welcome of those who fear the bright flame of devotion, I shall continue to carry the lamp of artistry, vision, and genuine proper care, for the sake of a heritage too sacred to leave in impetuous hands.
There are those who will read these words and feel the subtle outline of things that have been politely left unspoken.

To them, I say only this: “Truth wears no disguise. Those who love, build, and serve sincerely will reveal themselves in the fullness of time.”

A peculiar sorrow dances on the heart's edge when one feels quietly set apart, as if unseen hands had drawn invisible walls.

For many years, I chose to set aside such murmurs within myself, instead cloaking others in goodwill and believing in the better angels of human nature.

Yet now, by whispers carried from those who have seen the inner workings firsthand, it is confirmed: My soul's currents sensed what the eye alone could not behold; my spirit was not mistaken. However, upon viewing blog posts and listening to dear friends speak, the whispering and words in podcasts began to have the smell of graverobbing about them.

Ah, but such is the way of truth — it moves like the hidden tide beneath the placid sea, unseen but ever certain. In time, truth itself reaches into the depths and carries all hidden things to the waiting shore.

Life holds its own tender reckonings to those who sow in secret for selfish harvests, to those who craft shadows for their own aggrandisement.
Karma is not swift, but it is sure, weaving with a patient hand the reflection each heart has earned.

Thus, I bear no bitterness — only a more profound reverence for the unseen laws that govern our steps.

I know with the certainty of the stars that what is sown in love will bloom eternal, and what is sown in fear shall crumble in its season.

I shall go on sowing light, tending beauty, and walking the quiet, steady path of truth.

For in the end, the seas always return what was lost, and every true heart finds its shining shore.

Most affably yours til my next swim, R

On Preservation, Perception, and the Power of Assumption: A Most Hopeful Reflection on Section 106 and the Times We Are In

My dear Mermaid Darlings,

Let us settle in with a warm cuppa tea, for this may be one of those conversations that deserve a quiet heart and an open mind. I speak today not in haste but in that still, steady voice that arises when one has seen too much to be shaken and yet loves too much to remain silent.

As of late, there has been much chatter and some alarm surrounding the shifting tides in historic preservation, particularly in the wake of the DOGE initiative and its reach into departments that many of us hold dear. Among these, Section 106, that gentle but mighty guardian of our architectural memory, has been whispered about in worried tones and outright outrage.

But I invite you not into outrage, dear reader—I invite you into clarity, courage, and perhaps a bit of enchantment. For all things that seem to be falling may, in truth, be finding their place.

Let us walk together into this conversation—not with fear, but with a flame of reverence and resolve and with the unshakable knowledge that history is not only what has passed but what we choose to preserve.

In an age where so much is spoken of division and depletion, it is, I believe, a most elegant rebellion to stand in unwavering hopefulness—to perceive all things through the golden lens of possibility rather than despair. And so it is with the recent rumblings surrounding federal shifts and adjustments supporting specific cultural programmes, including institutions long devoted to curating our nation’s more difficult histories.

Some may interpret such developments as endings—closures, erasures, or acts of disregard. Yet, I would gently propose another lens entirely—one less concerned with what is seemingly removed and more enchanted by what is now being readied, for those whose vision, devotion, and timing are most aligned.

As a woman devoted to the preservation and resurrection of Chinsegut Hill, I have long trained my gaze not upon what is presently visible but upon the shape of what is forming. I hold a vantage not rooted in current appearances but in an elevated understanding—that all things are always working toward the realisation of one’s deeper call.

Thus, I do not interpret these changes as acts of diminishment but rather as divine rearrangements—a refinement of stewardship. Where once there were entitlements and committees, there shall now be custodians with soul, with a heart-born reverence for heritage and story.

Indeed, it is my thoughtful observation that President Trump, far from scorning history, has often spoken with unmistakable admiration for architectural splendour, classic craftsmanship, and the protection of American beauty. In various addresses, he has expressed fondness for grand historical spaces and their refinement. What some may view as dissolution, I view as delegation—a quiet transfer of care from impersonal institutions to individuals of conviction.

And so, I do not see cuts—I see clarity. I see the path cleared for those who are prepared to step forward with honour, vision, and respect for legacy. I see Chinsegut Hill is not neglected but is awaiting her rightful steward. And in my inward life, I already walk her halls.

Section 106, the noble provision of the National Historic Preservation Act, remains a guiding light—a safeguard that ensures that historic treasures are deeply considered and thoughtfully evaluated before being touched. And I, for one, am not only willing but wholly prepared to honour it—not from compulsion, but from a personal pledge to the past and those who shaped it.

If grants no longer cradle the old houses, then we must cradle them—those of us who speak gently to walls, mend shutters like prayer and understand that ivy has a memory. We, who light candles in the windows of history, so others may find their way back to meaning.

I believe this moment in time, however controversial, is an invitation to reimagine—to build businesses, buildings, and restore our intimacy with place, heritage, and reverence.

And amidst this unfolding conversation, a new decree has fluttered forth from the highest office in the land—a call not of destruction but of design.

Donald Trump’s latest executive order is shaking up the architectural landscape in a rather remarkable fashion. With a bold and unapologetic nod to tradition, he has revived his prior vision for “Beautiful Federal Civic Architecture,” directing that all new federal buildings honour classical and traditional design principles. This is a strikingly elegant gesture in a world so often swept away by the stark and impersonal.

As part of nearly one hundred directives issued upon his return to office, this 2025 initiative calls upon government leaders to ensure that public buildings are visually identifiable, rooted in regional heritage, and, above all, beautiful. His aim? To uplift and beautify public spaces and to reintroduce a sense of grandeur, order, and national pride in the very bones of our built environment.

Now, whether one leans in favour or not of such measures politically, there is something undeniably stirring—even comforting—in the notion that classic architecture is defended at the federal level. It is competitive that our beautiful historic buildings may once again whisper stories instead of merely standing cold and hollow.

As someone whose heart beats in rhythm with floorboards and finials, with brick hearths and timeworn thresholds, I cannot help but feel that this moment—yes, this very moment—is poised for something truly wondrous.

It is a turning of the page, not an ending, a gentle passing of the torch, not into obscurity, but into the careful, capable hands of those who still believe in beauty, legacy, and our collective responsibility to remember.

And remember, we shall.

For some of us, preservation is not policy—it is destiny.

And so I live, speak, and act from that certainty.

Chinsegut Hill is mine to love, to tend, to awaken.

And so it shall be.

Most affably yours til my next swim, R

The Quiet Death of Brooksville’s Beauty: When Greed Outweighs Green

Never Get in the Way of Progress—Ba Humbug

  

My Dear Mermaid Darlings, 

{ One of the most delightful notions in having a blog is that I can whinge on about things that have put me out of joint. I have something to say about everything, and if you've been here long enough, you know that; however, from my recent past experiences, I've had the piss taken out of me for some of the posts I've written, and there have been some folks that want me to know I shouldn't be writing about particular notions.

Because heaven forfend, I speak my truth and have an opinion about what swirls around in my curious natured mind. See where I’m going with this; perfect? I thought you might. It's the turncoat nature of the quizzing from others that now leads me to dress down the individuals for their impudence. I am adamant and refuse to be controlled through leveraging, psychological manipulation or bullied into feeling I’m bound and should keep my gob shut; I choose to write honourable posts on a blog for all the world to read, especially my hometown that i love and care for so much! I walk in love, kindness, and grace, creating beauty and uplifting others. Fear and unkindness have no place here. I wish you peace on your journey, just as I have found on mine.}

My throat chakra has flung itself wide open, and silent no more shall I be.

Indeed, today has been one of those cottage days—nightgown, slippers, and a dishwater face to match the grey skies. But amidst the slow simmer of tea and thought, I was reminded of a particular passage in one of the many books chronicling the life of dear Beatrix Potter. It spoke of her remarkable quest to buy up vast stretches of the countryside—not for vanity or conquest but to protect the natural world from being trampled by progress-hungry prats with shovels, blueprints, and blind ambition.
She succeeded gloriously, preserving nearly four thousand acres, farms and all, for generations yet unborn. But in doing so, she ruffled many a feather—especially those belonging to men who, at the time, held a monopoly on both land and literature. They muttered and scowled, offended by the audacity of a woman—an artist and author, no less—who dared to interrupt their plans for industrial sprawl with a firm “no, thank you.” It seems they believed she ought to be reined in, reminded of her “place,” and politely step aside for “progress.”

To that, I say: bravo, Beatrix. May your stubborn magic and reverence for the land echo forever in hedgerows and fields.

And I must admit, her story stirs a kindred fire within me, for I, too, have grown increasingly disenchanted with the happenings in my own little village of Brooksville, Florida. There is beauty here, yes—but also a creeping carelessness, and I cannot, in good conscience, remain a silent bystander. The land, the legacy, and the spirit of a place matter deeply.

With a heart full of love, I speak now not in rebellion, but in devotion to nature, heritage, and the quiet magic that deserves to be defended.
Though I live in America, the spirit of Beatrix Potter lives most ardently in me. Her love for the land, her refusal to bow to the demands of so-called progress, and her quiet rebellion against the ruin of beauty—I feel it all like an echo in my own bones.

My parents reside on the quiet curve of a cul-de-sac that, for decades, was flanked by untouched forest. Grand trees stood like ancient sentinels, guarding the land in leafy silence. But alas, that peace was shattered only months ago. Where once there was birdsong and breeze, there are now backhoes tearing through root and limb—an entire wood being razed for the construction of numerous small homes. And while my heart is utterly gutted, I must admit: perhaps this is what I needed precisely. A little shake-up often invites a deeper reflection.

I have always known I am not like most. Many find joy in packed neighbourhoods and tight-knit communities where every house touches the next. But I am of a different persuasion. I find my soul in wildflowers and distance to breathe. The land, once taken, cannot be returned—unless one has money to roast, and even then, the spirit cannot be replanted.

And so, I have made a vow: I shall buy up as much land as my bank account will afford me, and i will do so to preserve it. I shall take it under my wing, care for it, and nurture it as if she is a living, breathing soul in need of safeguarding. In addition, this brings me to Chinsegut Hill, our beloved historic site or what once felt historic.
Recently, I attempted to visit the site only to be met with a locked gate and a most curious sight: a mermaid statue posted proudly at the entrance. Now, as a mermaid mystic myself, I hold no prejudice against such symbols. But there is a time, a place, and above all, a tasteful manner for everything. When preservation is replaced with novelty, we lose not just style, but our soul.
Statues, monuments, decorations—these things must serve the story of a place, not distract from it. And sadly, the choices being made of late appear more akin to a party shop spree than a curated homage to our heritage. Led-blue lights strung along historic lamp posts, garish wreaths, and snow displays in subtropical Florida—it all feels a bit like a fever dream with no curator at the helm.

I’m not here to complain but to care—vocally and visibly.

I once attempted to serve this community more formally. I ran for city council but was denied over a boundary line discrepancy—only 500 feet shy of eligibility. Meanwhile, others hold seats using addresses from abandoned homes.
I was told, and I quote: “Write a complaint, but it won’t do much. It’ll just be filed away” when i brought this to light.

So now, I battle in my way: manifesting my heart's desires and writing truth plainly and poetically for all to see. No man shall keep back the tide of purpose when the sea within me is rising.

It is often declared that evil prevails when good folk do nothing. Well, I am doing my bit. And if you, dear reader, live in my little village of Brooksville, Florida, I invite you to do yours, not through outrage, but through thoughtful action, quiet strength, and boundless hope.
For every seed of goodness planted today may bloom into beauty tomorrow—and beauty, my friend, is always worth preserving.

If you are still interested in attending our little cottage core tea party at Chinsegut Hill, please purchase a ticket in my Etsy shoppe. We shall have a whale of a time.

Most affably yours til my next swim, R