On Woven Boundaries

The first wattle fence I ever made. 

On Woven Boundaries

{A letter left upon the kitchen table}

My dear mermaid darlings, and you tender souls of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I was thinking this morning of the first wattle fence I ever made, and how I did not so much decide upon it as simply find myself weaving, branches gathered in my arms and laid where the earth itself seemed to suggest a line, flowers placed not for show but as quiet markers of care, and Oliver hopping freely about the whole affair, quite unconcerned with whether anything sensible was being accomplished, which in truth felt rather perfect, for there was no urgency then, no need to name the work, only the gentle pleasure of hands moving and something slowly taking shape.

That was nearly a decade ago now, long before I had words for what these small acts were teaching me, and long before I understood how in England the winter months have always belonged to hedgelaying, that old and patient craft of renewing boundaries not by cutting them away but by bending and weaving living growth so that it may continue, a way of tending that protects without hardening and shelters without closing the world out.

A wattle fence carries the same quiet knowing, never pretending permanence, never demanding authority, simply saying — here is where something is being cared for — and that first fence held flowers and soil and a small creature moving exactly as he pleased, doing its work without explanation, without performance, without the slightest concern for whether it would be noticed.

As the years have passed and my own life has softened into clearer shape, I have come to see how much these woven things mirror the seasons we move through as women, how there are times when we grow outward with enthusiasm and other times when the truer work is returning to strengthen what already stands, not beginning anew but tending gently, choosing boundaries that breathe rather than walls that brace.

Hedgelaying season feels like that to me now, a season for mending rather than striving, for shaping without severing, for remembering that the most enduring structures are made slowly and by hand, with enough kindness to allow life to move through them, and I find I have always preferred fences you can see through, boundaries that are firm yet gracious, and ways of living that do not require explanation to be true.

So I continue to weave as I always have, trusting that what is made with care will hold, that what needs passing through will do so naturally, and that a life well tended, like a hedge well laid, knows exactly how to stand without becoming unkind.

With love, and twigs still upon my sleeves,

— Lady Raquel 

I share small daily moments and seasonal reflections over on Instagram, for those who enjoy such things.

A Letter on Quiet Lives and Loud Expectations

Dear mermaid darlings and the lovely Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I have been noticing something of late, and I wonder if you have felt it too.

At times, as I wander through these so-called slow living and old-fashioned spaces — the linen aprons, the sourdough loaves, the rows of industrious little hands — my chest tightens rather than softens. Instead of calm, I feel a faint unease, like a breeze that carries the memory of a storm long past.

These women are always doing.  

Cooking from scratch, teaching their children, tending homes and gardens, building dream houses plank by plank, posting daily, filming constantly, offering themselves endlessly. There is scarcely a moment when the hands are not busy, the mind not occupied, the body not required.

They call it devotion.  

They call it purpose.  

They call it a beautiful life.

Yet what I see — and what my body remembers — is something altogether different.

I see exhaustion worn like a badge of honour.  

Dark circles framed as virtue.  

Rest postponed, justified, or quietly denied.  

A life where stillness must be earned, and silence feels suspicious.

I know this life.  

I lived it once.

And it nearly cost me everything.

When I was younger, I carried a home, children, responsibility, faith, and expectation upon my back without pause or mercy. There was always one more thing to do, one more soul to tend, one more measure of goodness to prove. I did not know how to stop — nor was I ever given permission to do so.

The world praised my strength while my spirit quietly disappeared.

So now, when I see these images — no matter how charming the crockery or golden the light — my nervous system stirs. It is not judgment. It is recognition. The body does not forget what survival felt like.

What troubles me most is not the work itself, but how exhaustion is sanctified. How suffering is reframed as calling. How a woman’s worth becomes entangled with her usefulness, her output, her endurance.

This is not slowness.  

This is labour dressed in lace.

Authentic slow living — the kind that heals rather than hollows — leaves room for margins, for unseen days, for afternoons that accomplish nothing at all. It allows creativity to arise from rest, not pressure. It honours the woman herself, not just the life she produces.

These days, I choose a quieter rhythm. A gentler authority. A life that does not require constant evidence of its value. I no longer confuse depletion with devotion, nor busyness with meaning.

And if you feel that same tightening — that subtle tremor in your chest when you scroll — please know this: there is nothing wrong with you.

Your body may simply be remembering a life it survived.  

And it may be lovingly reminding you that you are no longer required to live there.

We are allowed to build beautiful lives without breaking ourselves upon them.

A Small Blessing for the Woman Who Is Learning to Rest

May you never again mistake exhaustion for holiness,  nor believe that a life must be heavy to be worthy.

May your days contain pauses that require no explanation, and rest that arrives without guilt or apology.

May your hands learn that they are allowed to be still, and your heart remember that it is not measured by what it produces.

May you choose beauty that soothes rather than strains, and rhythms that leave room for breath, wonder, and quiet joy.

And when the world grows loud with its expectations, may you feel no obligation to answer.

You are already enough.  

The tide does not hurry, and neither must you.

With affection,  

R.

From the Stillwater Days

—reflections for women who are no longer willing to prove their worth through exhaustion.

Candlemas at Stillwater: A Gathering of Light

My dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

February has arrived at our dear threshold, and she comes as she always does—cool of breath, silvered with damp, and wrapped in a soft grey shawl. There are mornings when it feels as though the whole world has drawn its curtains and settled into a long, thoughtful slumber, quite forgetting its promise to wake again as spring. Yet February is a brief visitor, and her days are short besides. When the sun deigns to show her face, we step outdoors with glad hearts, strolling slowly and watching our shadows trail after us like old friends who refuse to be left behind. One cannot help but wonder—how many weeks more of winter must we yet endure?

I, for one, remain incurably hopeful. I cannot pass the garden beds without spying what I call February’s fair maids—those brave little snowdrops pressing their pale bonnets through the frozen earth, whispering that spring is already on her way, however quietly she may tread. With the great holidays now folded neatly away, the young souls of our household grow bright-eyed again, keen for fresh diversions and gentle merriments.

And so February, dear month that she is, offers us her own small treasures: evenings by the fireside, wax and wick for candle-dipping, bowls and spoons for the making of comforting sweets, paper and ribbon for valentine missives made by hand and heart alike. These are the simple joys that bind us, stitch by stitch, into warmth and belonging.

Come then, my loves—draw nearer. Let us pass this month together in candlelight and quiet laughter, trusting the tide, knowing full well that spring never truly forgets us.

There is a quiet turning point in the heart of winter that I have honoured for many years now—long before the children grew tall and the house grew quieter. On the second day of February, Candlemas Day, winter seems to pause, draw a thoughtful breath, and consider whether it shall linger or begin its slow retreat.

When my children were little, this day carried a special hush. Candlemas marked the true closing of Christmastide, and together we gathered away the last ribbons and evergreens, setting the house to rights while the light outside still fell early and soft. Winter remained, yes—but it no longer felt endless. Candlelight made it companionable.

Midway through the season, I would take stock of our candles, counting them carefully, knowing how faithfully they served us through the darker weeks. A candle was never merely wax and wick—it was reassurance. Light for an early morning, warmth for a quiet evening, comfort for small hands and sleepy eyes. If our supply ran low, Candlemas became an invitation rather than a concern.

An invitation to make more.

The children loved candles, and they delighted even more in the making of them. Candle-dipping became one of our most cherished winter pastimes—simple in its requirements, generous in its rewards. Beeswax warmed and melted, wicks dipped and lifted, cooled and dipped again. Slowly, patiently, almost without notice, a candle took shape. The rhythm soothed us. The repetition steadied us. Beauty arrived not by haste, but by devotion.

What I learned then—and still hold dear—is that candle-making is never meant to be solitary. It draws people together. Hands pass tools, voices soften, laughter finds its place. By the time the finished tapers appear, the real work has already been done: time has been shared, warmth has been made.

Now, years later, I carry this tradition forward in a new way.

I still observe Candlemas faithfully, but now the circle has widened. Friends gather. Kindred spirits come near. At small social gatherings and seasonal evenings, I invite others into this same gentle practice—candles dipped by many hands, stories exchanged, winter sweetened by light. The house glows. Conversation slows. The season loosens its grip.

We light candles throughout the rooms, often setting them before mirrors so their glow multiplies and wanders. We dine by candlelight, speak softly, and remember what it felt like to live by flame alone. And always, I keep one favourite custom close to my heart: each guest chooses a single candle. When it burns down, the evening draws gently to its close—no abrupt ending, only a natural resting.

Candlemas has followed me through motherhood and into this season of gathering. It has grown with me, just as traditions ought to do. What once held a household now holds a community.

And one day—when the right doors open and the right place receives us—I know this gathering will find its proper home. Until then, the light is already practised, already alive, already waiting.

With waxed fingers and a steady flame,

Lady Raquel 

From the Stillwater Days

My dearest Mermaid Darlings,

This day asks for softness, and I answer it gladly. The cold rests firmly beyond the windows, while within, the low murmur of soothed sheep and distant nature sounds fill the cool air, as though the countryside has drawn nearer for company. And so I remain indoors, tending the quieter labours that keep a home in good spirits.

I write behind the scenes and put small things gently in order — work that does not announce itself, yet leaves the rooms calmer for its presence. I refresh the bedroom as one might smooth a well-loved petticoat, not for show, but for comfort. Gardenia candles scent the rooms, their sweetness lingering like a fond memory.

My knee, ever the honest companion, asks for a slower pace, and I listen. There is grace in yielding to such counsel. Bread rises upon the counter, patient and warm, and the kitchen answers with that familiar fragrance which feels like reassurance itself. As it bakes, I think of the weekend ahead and set small things in readiness, content in the knowing that preparation is its own quiet joy.

Winter does not rush us, my loves. She invites us to move with care, to keep the light, and to rest without apology.

Is this it? 

Until later,

I remain yours,

in still water and candle glow.

LR

A Letter on Devotion, Weariness, and the Quiet Mercy of Letting Go

My dearest Mermaid Darlings,

and you, my cherished Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I wish to speak today of something tender, and I ask your patience, for this is not a matter that yields to haste.

I have noticed, as perhaps you have too, the many beautiful images that drift across our screens: bread rising, children barefoot in fields, milk poured warm from the pail, homes ordered by prayer and promise. Often, these scenes are accompanied by declarations of devotion — words of service, faith, and holy intention.

There is nothing inherently unlovely in this.

And yet.

There are truths one may only speak after she has lived long enough inside them.

I was raised in religion. First Pentecostal, then Mormon, for many decades of my life. I knew the hymns by heart. I knew the rules by memory. I knew how to perform goodness, obedience, cheerfulness, and sacrifice until my body could no longer distinguish devotion from erasure.

And I say this with care, not accusation; the cost was very high. 

I do not speak of belief itself, but of the weight placed upon women in its name. Of the quiet expectation to endure endlessly. Of the sanctification of exhaustion. Of the way suffering is so often mistaken for virtue.

There were seasons when I smiled and served while something vital inside me slowly disappeared. There were years when the promise of goodness required me to deny my own knowing. There was a time — and I say this plainly, because it matters — when I was suicidal, not because I lacked faith, but because I had been taught to abandon myself in order to keep it.

I know now that many women live this way sincerely. Lovingly. With their whole hearts. I also know that sincerity does not prevent harm.

It is difficult to name this without sounding unkind, and so I will be precise:

I have often found that those who spoke most loudly of love and godliness were, paradoxically, the most severe with other women — and with themselves. Judgment was cloaked as concern. Control dressed itself as care. Cruelty slipped through in the name of righteousness.

This is not a universal truth. It is not a condemnation.

It is an observation born of long intimacy.

And here is where I wish to be especially gentle — with them, and with myself.

I understand now that this, too, is a belief system at work. A structure that promises safety through order. Meaning through sacrifice. Belonging through sameness. When one has given her life to such a system, questioning it can feel like death itself.

So I no longer meet it with anger.

I meet it with distance.

And with compassion.

I am still unlearning the reflex that says holiness must hurt. I am still releasing the belief that goodness requires disappearance. These ideas linger like old songs — softer now, but not entirely gone. A pinch, as one might say. And that is all right.

Healing does not require haste.

What I know, with quiet certainty, is this:
love that requires you to leave yourself is not love.
devotion that demands your silence is not sacred.
and a God who asks for your erasure is not one I recognise anymore.

I now believe in a gentler order. One that allows rest. One that honours discernment. One that permits a woman to belong to herself first.

If you recognise yourself anywhere in these words — if you feel a tightening, or a softening, or a long exhale — know that you are not alone, and you are not wrong for noticing.

There is a way of living that does not require performance.
There is a faith that does not demand exhaustion.
There is a holiness in being alive.
I write this not to persuade, but to make room.

A Benediction for the Tenderhearted

May you be released from the belief that love must wound in order to be real.

May you lay down every burden that was never yours to carry.

May you learn, slowly and without reproach, that rest is not rebellion, and that gentleness is not a failure of faith.

May you trust the quiet knowing in your own body.

May you recognise the voice of goodness when it speaks without fear.

May your life become a sanctuary rather than a proving ground.

And if you are still unlearning — if a pinch of old fear yet lingers — may you treat yourself with the same mercy you so freely offer others.

Go softly.
You are allowed to belong to yourself.

With tenderness and a heart still learning mercy,

Lady Raquel 

On Loving What We Cannot Save

My dear mermaid darlings,

There is a little feral cat who has lived on my land since she was born. She has always been small, constantly unwell in one way or another, invariably just a little behind the others. I had her spayed when I could, I make warm places for her when the cold arrives, I leave food and water each day, and still—she seems to improve only to slip back again.

Lately, she has begun sleeping in one of the beds I made when the temperatures dropped. I noticed her there one morning and felt both relief and sorrow at once. Relief that she had chosen warmth. Sorrow that I could not do more.

I cannot touch her. I cannot carry her inside. I cannot explain to her that I am trying.

And that is the part that aches.

There are moments when care meets a boundary, and no amount of love can push past it. I think many of us know this feeling, though we don’t often speak of it. We are taught, quietly and persistently, that love should fix, heal, rescue, and resolve. When it does not, we assume we have failed.

But I am beginning to understand something different.

Some beings—animal or human—can only receive help up to a certain threshold. Beyond that, they retreat, not out of stubbornness, but out of capacity. Their nervous systems, their bodies, their histories will not allow more. To push past that limit is not kindness. It is control dressed as care.

I have learned that tending does not always lead to recovery. Sometimes it leads only to less suffering. And that, too, matters.

This little cat may never thrive, she may ever be fragile, and she may always remain on the edge of things. Still, her life is gentler than it would have been without warmth, food, shelter, and a quiet regard. That is something real, not nothing.

There is a humility required here, one I am still learning. It is the humility of walking beside rather than carrying, of offering without insisting, of loving without possession. It asks us to loosen our grip on outcomes and attend instead to presence.

I find myself thinking that mercy is not always dramatic. Often it looks like a bed placed out of the wind. A bowl filled again. A watchful eye. A heart that does not turn away simply because it cannot finish the journey for another.

We live in a world that praises saving. We speak far less of accompanying. And yet accompaniment may be the truer kindness.

If I am learning anything through her, it is this: I am allowed to love without being able to save. I am allowed to tend without being in charge of how the story ends. I am allowed to offer care that stops where consent and capacity begin.

That feels important. It feels honest. And, in its own quiet way, it feels complete.

So tonight, I leave the bed where it is. I fill the bowls again. I notice her resting, breathing, warm enough for now. And I let that be sufficient.

Sometimes, love does not carry us all the way across.

Sometimes, it simply walks with us as far as we are able to go.

Most affably yours till my next enchanting swim, LR

When Place Speaks First

My dearest Mermaid Darlings, and cherished members of The Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There are seasons when a woman feels no urge to hurry, explain, or prove.

She knows when a thing must wait for its proper hour.

I have found myself often asked — gently, curiously — why I place such importance upon where I gather, and why I am content to wait for the proper setting before I open my doors.

I shall answer you as one answers a trusted friend.

I have never believed that meaningful work arrives alone. It brings its surroundings with it — its light, its tempo, its manners. A gathering does not begin with the first guest; it commences the moment one steps into a place that knows how to receive them.

A place, you see, speaks first.

Long before anyone spoke of leadership, branding, or mission, women understood this instinctively. They chose rooms that softened the voice, gardens that had learned patience and houses that knew how to hold a conversation without interrupting it.

Such places required no instruction. They taught by presence alone.

I have always held — perhaps unfashionably — that beauty is not indulgence. It is a responsibility made visible. A well-kept environment does not impress; it reassures. It says quietly, you may rest here, you may think clearly here, you may be held without performance.

When the work concerns preservation, memory, continuity, and care — when it asks people to slow, to notice, to remember that they belong to something longer than themselves — then the environment must already be doing that work on our behalf.

I do not possess a talent for persuasion, nor do I desire one. I prefer invitations, and invitations require the correct vessel.

This is why I wait.

Not from hesitation, but from respect — for the work, for the people it will one day receive, and for the places of long memory with which I remain in thoughtful conversation. Historic houses, landscapes, and estates — Chinsegut Hill amongst them — were never meant to serve as backdrops. They were built to teach quietly, to set a standard without speaking.

When gatherings are held in such settings, something gentle but unmistakable occurs. Voices lower of their own accord. Attention sharpens. Grace asserts itself without instruction.

That is environment-led stewardship, long practised and rarely named.

I am not postponing. I am preparing. I am tending the ground so that when the doors do open, the place itself will greet you before I ever do.

And when that day comes — when we gather in a setting that has earned its years — I hope you will feel what I have always felt in such places:

That you have arrived somewhere that understands how to hold you.

Until then, I remain exactly where I ought to be —

listening, tending, and keeping the kettle warm.

With enduring affection,

Lady Raquel 

On the Difference Between a Life Lived and a Life Inhabited

My dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There comes a moment, often after a woman has walked a considerable distance through her own days and seasons, when she finds herself softly out of step with the surrounding world, not through rebellion nor weariness, nor pride, but through the quiet discernment born only of having lived, loved, lost, questioned, and chosen again, until she can sense—almost by instinct—the difference between what is merely displayed for admiration and what is faithfully inhabited with devotion and care, and it is to you, my gentle companions who have walked far and thoughtfully, that I offer these words as one might offer a cup of warm tea on a cool afternoon, without instruction, without judgement, simply in shared understanding.

For in recent years there has arisen a great fondness for what is named the simple life (slow living), often rendered in pleasing scenes of cottages and bread and neatly pressed linens, and while beauty is never to be dismissed—indeed it is one of life’s great consolations—there remains a quiet distinction, seldom spoken aloud, between a life arranged for appearance and a life shaped by continuity, for the former may be set down at dusk when the weight of it grows tiresome, while the latter settles into the bones, alters the rhythm of one’s breath, and becomes inseparable from the way one moves through the world, so that a woman living in this manner does not speak of it loudly because she is too gently occupied doing it, mending rather than displaying, keeping rather than styling, ordering her days rather than curating them, and in this steady inhabiting lies a depth that requires neither audience nor applause.

I have noticed, too, a peculiar unease in the modern sphere with seriousness, particularly when it resides in women, for devotion is so often mistaken for rigidity and steadiness for severity. Yet, seriousness is nothing more than love that has stayed, deepened, and learned to endure. Those who have borne children, buried grief, crossed inner thresholds, reshaped belief, and remained present to life’s long questions cannot treat existence lightly, not because they lack joy, but because they understand its weight. So when they encounter ways of living spoken of as novelty or ornament, something within them quietly recoils—not in envy nor disdain, but in discernment, for they recognise what time has already taught them.

Many who gather around old ways do so through religion, and for some, this provides comfort and shelter. Yet, there are others—often quieter, often less visible—who have walked through religion and emerged into a spirituality tempered by lived experience, women who do not instruct readily, who tolerate paradox, who do not flee from questions, and who have learned that truth cannot be hurried nor borrowed, for their authority has been earned slowly through attention, humility, and remaining present to life rather than performing certainty upon it.

In this age, where numbers are frequently mistaken for wisdom and visibility for maturity, it is worth remembering that a following does not confer elderhood, confidence does not replace endurance, and instruction offered without time rarely lasts, for time itself is the great sifter, and while those who play at a life may shine swiftly, those who inhabit a life endure quietly and without fuss, often unnoticed until their steadiness becomes unmistakable.

And so, if you find yourself unsettled, or gently irritated, by the lightness with which sacred rhythms are sometimes handled, know that you are neither unkind nor mistaken, but simply standing within a longer season, one that requires no explanation and seeks no competition, for you are not here to be instructed by every passing voice nor to justify the depth of your choosing, but to live—truly, sincerely, and with reverence—and a life lived in this manner will always, in its own time, be recognised by those whose eyes have learned how to see.

Until then, remain steady, keep your hands to your work, let your days speak for you, and trust that this, as it always has been, is how the most authentic lives make themselves known.

With abiding affection and the most profound respect for those who have walked far,
Lady Raquel 

A Quiet Life Is Not an Unambitious One

My dearest Mermaid Darlings,

and all gathered here within the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There persists, in our modern clatter, a most curious misunderstanding: that a woman who lives quietly must surely live small.

That, unless she declares her progress aloud, broadcasts her labour, or hastens visibly toward her aims, she must be drifting—content with less, or resigned to a narrowing of her dreams.

I have found this notion to be entirely false.

A quiet life, when chosen with intention, is not the absence of ambition. It is ambition that has learned its own proper pace.

It is a life ordered not by urgency, but by discernment.

I did not stumble into quietness by chance, nor did I retreat into it through defeat. I arrived there deliberately, having learned—through trial, through sorrow, through experience—that a life need not shout in order to be significant.

As I grew more settled within myself, I noticed that my days required less display. The more securely I stood in my own knowing, the less I felt compelled to explain myself to the world at large.

In place of noise, I found discipline. Not the severe sort that scolds and drives, but the faithful sort that returns, day after day, to what matters.

Quiet work carries its own rhythm.

It keeps its appointments without fanfare.

It tends rather than performs.

In a quiet life, ambition does not disappear — it goes underground.

It shows itself in the returning to small practices, faithfully kept.

In the careful ordering of one’s home and hours.

In the patience to let ideas ripen privately before presenting them publicly.

In the choosing of consistency over spectacle, it is not a lesser ambition.

It is a stronger ambition — one that builds foundations instead of impressions.

Many fear quiet because it offers no immediate applause. Silence leaves room for reflection, and reflection requires honesty. Yet I have learned that when one no longer seeks constant confirmation, one discovers something far more sustaining: inner authority.

That authority steadies the hands, it calms the nerves and allows a woman to finish what she begins.

From such steadiness comes endurance — and endurance, my darlings, always outlasts excitement.

There is also a reverence within quiet living that deserves mention. To tend one’s life with care — one’s garden, one’s body, one’s work — is an act of stewardship. It resists haste. It honours what has been entrusted.

This, too, is ambition, not of immediacy, but of legacy.

A quiet life does not refuse growth.

It refuses chaos.

It does not disdain success.

It simply declines spectacle.

And it does not shun visibility —

it waits until visibility serves the work, rather than the ego.

I order my days with increasing simplicity now. Not because my dreams have shrunk, but because my discernment has sharpened. I no longer confuse motion with meaning, nor noise with progress.

Some of the most consequential work we shall ever do unfolds without witnesses.

And when the time comes for that work to be seen, it will not need to shout.

It will speak — clearly, calmly, and in its own hour.

A quiet life is not an unambitious one.

It is the life of a woman who knows precisely what she is building —

and feels no urgency to prove it before it is ready.

A Benediction for the Stillwater Soul and 
A Word for My Mermaid Darlings

May you never mistake quiet for absence,

nor steadiness for stagnation.

May your days be ordered with care, your labour met with patience, and your dreams allowed the dignity of ripening in their own season. May you trust the work done without witnesses,

the progress made without announcement,

and the life you are building, piece by faithful piece.

And may you remember, always, that what is tended with love endures.

If you find yourself drawn to a quieter way of living, do not fear that you are falling behind. You are not losing ground — you are laying it.

The world is loud with urgency, yet lasting things are rarely hurried. Attend to your days with care, return faithfully to what matters, and allow your life to speak in its own voice.

You are not late, nor overlooked.

You are becoming — and that, my dears, is more than enough.

If you wish to continue these quiet moments, you'll find me sharing them daily on Instagram. 

Most affectionately yours,

until my next enchanting swim, LR