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