When the Land Weeps: A Love Letter to Those Who Still Feel It

My dear Mermaid Darling's,

There's a particular kind of heartbreak I've come to know well. It's not the kind born of betrayal or personal loss. No, this one comes quietly—like a sob beneath the soil—and it stirs whenever I see another ancient tree torn down, another patch of earth flattened for someone's fleeting vision of "progress."

What aches me most isn't only that our sweet little sleepy town of Brooksville, Florida, is changing. It's that so many don't seem to care—or worse, that they pretend to care. Another notion that is maddening is that there are people, many of whom don't even live here, buying up land as though it were lifeless — as though the trees, the wildlife, and the memories tucked into every blade of grass were somehow expendable.

They tear through the woods like they're swiping crumbs off a table. They call it "development," but to those of us who feel it's devastation.

Our foxes are driven from their dens. The deer have nowhere left to wander. The owls who once called in the dusk now cry out to empty lots and hollow silence. I walk these lands and feel the echoes of what was — and I wonder how many more trees must fall before someone hears the forest scream.

And let's be honest — many of those voting for this change are not being led by vision but by money. There are those who accept payments to look the other way. Those who sign without a pause. Those who smile in public and scheme in private, and while intentions are hidden neatly in paperwork, they cannot hide from Spirit.

I do not seek to ruffle feathers, nor do I arrive with disdain in my heart—but let it be known: I see through the silken smiles and honeyed words of those who cloak self-interest in the guise of preservation. Some would wear the wool of the lamb whilst bearing the cunning eyes of the wolf, weaving tales of care for our historic sites whilst quietly tucking coins into their own back pockets or chasing the shimmer of local adoration. Yet I, with no need for vanity nor applause, shall go on—gracefully, intelligently, and without retreat—speaking truth wrapped in velvet, dressing fools with the lace of my tongue, and walking ever more boldly into the heart of this town. For I do not plan to go anywhere save to delve deeper into relevance and further into the legacy I came to tend.

A Protest of a Different Kind

I often ask myself: what can I do besides weep and remember?

And then I remember Elizabeth Robins.
A suffragette, a writer, an actress, and one of the fiercest women ever to wield a pen — Elizabeth protested not with shouting but with Spirit. She didn't march with fists raised. She wrote The Convert, a novel that carried the message of women's rights straight into the parlours of those who might've never given the issue a second glance. She changed minds not through aggression but by revealing the soul behind the cause.

She lit fires not with matches — but with words.
And I intend to do the same.

I will write. I will speak. I will show others what is being lost — not in terms of tax brackets or housing counts, but in butterflies and branches, in the hush of moss-laced mornings, in the sound of spring water that once ran clear.
Elizabeth once wrote, "It is the quiet work, the secret protest, the honest record, that lasts."
And I believe that.

Manifestation as a Sacred Rebellion

I am not waiting for permission. I am not asking for approval. I am manifesting from the end — and my end is this:
A land restored.
A town remembered.
A future shaped not by greed but by reverence.
When you claim something in Spirit, the outer world must rearrange to reflect it. I know this. I've lived it, and so I walk forward, knowing that even if I stand alone, I do not stand powerless.
Those who destroy for profit may think themselves victorious now. But the law of the harvest is older than politics.
You reap what you sow.
And not every seed sown with a smile is one that will grow.

That's the moral behind my book, The Tale of Merrymaid Scarlette Rose — a story for children and grown-ups alike about what happens when you reap what you sow.

To Those Who Feel the Ache, Still

If you read this and your chest tightens with recognition — if your eyes sting when you see the land cleared and the trees lying like corpses — know that you're not imagining it. That's real grief, spiritual grief. That's what happens when the soul recognises a place meant to protect being slowly, systematically unmade.

But we were not made fragile.
We are made for this.
To remember what others forget, restore what others disregard, and to bear witness.
To speak with conviction — and to do so with charm, with heritage, with truth draped in grace.

And when they ask, "But what can one voice do?"
I shall answer:

"More than you know. More than you dare to believe."

Because we are the ones who walk in the footsteps of Robin's.

We are the ones who turn heartbreak into heritage, and we are the ones who plant acorns for futures we may never see — and we do it anyway.

Most affably yours til' my next swim, R

The House That Waited for Me (A Love Letter to Chinsegut Hill)

There is, nestled high upon a Florida hill wrapped in whispering oaks and ancestral breeze, a manor house unlike any other. Her name is Chinsegut, which means, so hauntingly and perfectly, “the spirit of things lost and regained.” A name not chosen but divined.
And oh, how I have loved her.

Not from a distance — but deeply, soulfully, with a reverence that reaches beyond time. For she (Chinsegut Hill) is not simply a house. She is a keeper of memory, a grandmother of land and lore, a sleeping queen beneath a canopy of stars. Fate stitched us together long ago — her bricks and beams bind themselves to the very beating of my heart.

But for years, I watched from the hedgerows, from the edges of the path, from just beyond the iron gate.

She has belonged to many — in deed, perhaps, but never in devotion.

Like a widow in waiting, she has stood, not crumbling but quietly forgotten, passed from contract to contract like a fine teacup no one dares to use. Transactional caretakers have come and gone, seeking only her prestige and not her poetry. And yet, she remains — proud, weathered, wistful — awaiting someone who does not wish to possess her but to belong to her.

And I?

I have come not with claims but with a cup in hand, full of love, rain, and restoration. My energy is not that of a conqueror but a keeper. Not a master but a mermaid-hearted mender of forgotten things.

I do not seek to own Chinsegut.

I seek to sanctify her.

To sweep her floors with prayer, to fill her windows with light, to crown her gardens with laughter and lemon balm.

But between us lies a gate still closed.
Not of stone or chain, but of old power—power misused or misunderstood. There are those who see her (Chinsegut Hill) still as a relic, a transaction, a property to leverage, not a legacy to live within. I have cast off the weary old notion that I must toil through struggle, parade my worth like a show pony, or linger in limbo awaiting permission — for I know now that I am already worthy, and the victory is not wrestled but remembered.

No more.

I believe — deeply, delightedly — that love is a valid title deed and that sacred places know the sound of their true steward’s voice.
So I speak now, in this blog, in this prayer-drenched letter, to anyone who listens:
If thou hold any key,
If thou know the way through parchment or policy,
If thy heart feels the truth of this tale —
Hear me.

For I am not building a brand or chasing glory. I am weaving a legacy of women and children and sacred restoration—of art, tea, storybooks, and spiritual sanctuary—of heirloom roses and open gates, of slow living and shared bread.

I am the keeper of a dream. And Chinsegut is the house that dreamed it first. Let her be lost no longer. Let her be regained — in light, in laughter, in the loving arms of one who remembers what others have forgotten. And if this letter finds its way to the heart that matters most…

Then so it shall be.

The Art of Living Lovely

My Dear Mermaid Darlings,

Might you pour a cup of tea and let us have a little prattle? I am having Fortnum and Mason with some homemade chocolate chip cookies I cobbled together last evening. 

In the past several weeks, I confess I had not the faintest notion where my dear little society—The Petticoat Society—would carry me upon the breeze of YouTube. And yet, like a ship led gently by the stars, I have found myself docked amongst the kindest, most encouraging, and delightfully spirited souls I have ever had the joy of meeting.

The darling lasses (and a few chaps, too!) from all corners of our big blue marble have embraced me with warmth and welcome, like old friends reuniting after lifetimes apart. It has been a balm most sweet for a lady once bruised by rejection, particularly from religious women whose hearts misunderstood the spiritual gifts bestowed upon me. Gone are the days of shame and shunning, and in their stead, a bevvy of radiant, open-hearted women who not only celebrate my mediumship channelled gifts and visions but gladly support me, both in spirit and in sovereign coin.

Yes, I daresay it boldly—I manifested this community. I spoke it into existence with the certainty of the sunrise and the knowing of a woman in her power. And lo, here it stands; beautiful, abundant, and brimming with affection.

I write this now with cheeks pinked by joy, for our very first sold-out social gathering of The Petticoat Society shall commence this May 10th at the beloved Chinsegut Hill, and oh, what a jolly fine time we shall have! My fine bone china—specially posted from England, no less—is polished spit-spot and ready for service, all arranged Bristol fashion.

At the weekend, I shall prepare the tea party menu with utmost care—delicate sandwiches, fluffy scones, and charming confections, each to accompany the enchanting little story I penned, "The Tale of MerryMaid Scarlette Rose." Though written for children, it carries spiritual truths and fairytale wisdom that grown ladies, too, may delight in. My dear, for what is childhood but the doorway to accurate remembrance?

At our first lil' social gathering, each attending lady shall receive a dainty hand-bound handmade diary and a quill pen (for one must always write one's revelations in beauty), and we shall enjoy a spiritual circle together—a moment of gentle inner reflection and soul connection.

Afterwards, we shall pour tea, the kettle whistling its merry tune, followed by a homespun craft (A Garden-Fresh Keepsake in Bloom) and then, to top it off, each lady will take home what was taken at the start of the gathering a Victorian tintype photograph upon the very steps of the grand Manor House—affectionately named Hilltop, as once coined by the dear British actress and suffragette, and likened protagonist in my British romantic novel Deceit and Dissension Miss Elizabeth Robins.

What a name, indeed, for it calls to mind Beatrix Potter's own Hilltop in the Lake District. Am I not, in some small fashion, the living echo of such women? An artist, authoress, and cottage-dweller with a bonnet full of dreams?

My beloved husband recently took my hand and said with a twinkle in his eye (not in truth, he said it whilst we had pillow talk; however, the writer in me can't manage to muster up the drab and boring to the olympic degree turn of phrase but rather i must shower my entries with a flourish and imaginative gesture. Bear with it, dear heart.) 

"Darling, you are financially independent, crafting and painting all day, writing beautiful tales, and playing house as a grown woman—what a dream you are living. It delights me beyond measure to see you so joyful, and I'm in awe of your power to bring every vision to life."

(He, in truth, did say these things; however, darlings, not to the exacting in words. My husband is a farmer and a down-home southerner who did not utter "it delights me beyond measure." Don't be daft!

How he indeed said it is not fit for the interweb in all of its politeness, and my grace shall not be challenged. (Smile) My dear, he is a bit rough around the edges, and that is, in all honesty, what i admire about him, so!)

Let us leave it to defer. 

Reader, I nearly blushed myself into the wallpaper.

For what he said is true—I am living my fairytale. And if I, a once-broken woman told she was "too much," "too strange," or "too dreamy," can manifest this life, then so can you. Let this be a candle in your window, dear heart; your dreams are not silly. Your joy is sacred. Your intuition is wise, and your creativity is your compass.

Therefore, pen thy tales, pour thy tea, paint thy dreams in full colour. The world is waiting for your magic.

This very week, I happened upon the sweetest little treasure—a dear rat or wiglet, as the Victorians so affectionately named it—a clever little hairpiece to lend one's coiffure a touch of splendid fullness.' Twas most inexpensive, yet it has brought me joy beyond measure, for with nought but a few graceful twists and pins, I now adorn my tresses in less than five minutes, and oh my stars, I am tickled conch-shell pink with delight.

Clad in my old-fashioned Victorian gown, with my straw bonnet perched just so and my seashell hat pin glinting like a wink from Neptune himself, I dare say I look as though I've stepped straight out of a lantern-lit period drama or some fanciful moving picture set in a bygone age.

The compliments I've received have been as plentiful as pearls in an oyster bed, and oh, how gracious and heartwarming they've been. There's something so enchantingly simple about reviving these little touches of the past—something that makes one's heart flutter like the hem of a petticoat in the breeze.

To live like this, in quiet beauty and quaint tradition, is not merely to dress the part but to embody the spirit of elegance, whimsy, and wonder. I do believe the sea and stars conspired to lead me to that dear little wiglet, and I am ever so glad they did.

Most affably yours til my next swim, Lady R

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