My Dearest Mermaid Darlings, and you gentle souls of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,
There is something I must confess to you, and I shall do so without powdering it in sugar; restoration rarely looks romantic in the middle.
Indeed, if one were to wander past Scarlette Rose Cottage at present, one might not at first behold a storybook dwelling, but rather a house in conversation with itself — patches of primed wood where old slats once rested, flagstone climbing slowly round her skirts, tools stacked with intention after long months of interruption, and a certain dear knee of mine reminding me that even enchantresses must sometimes sit down.
And yet — oh, how I love her so.
I have chosen for her trim and doors a storybook green — a proper Victorian green, not the garish gloss of modern haste, but a softened satin sheen that catches the light like moss after rain. Not too shiny, lest she appear newly manufactured; not too flat, lest she fade into chalk and sorrow under Florida’s humid sun. Satin for the trim, my dears — for durability, for gentle definition — and eggshell for the body when her time comes. The Victorians understood such subtleties. Sheen is a character. Light is language.
One cannot simply fling paint upon a house and call it heritage.
Each finish is chosen with purpose, every decision tempered by discipline, and every stone set deliberately, laid in measured portions according to what my own means permit.
Yes, I am restoring her into a flagstone cottage — fully wrapped, entirely grounded — and one day, God willing and wind permitting, she shall wear a thatched crown and be surrounded by a garden so abundant that roses will conspire with lavender and bees shall think it Eden. But I am doing it slowly. With my own hands. With my own money. With my own creative will.
And that matters to me.
Not because a woman may not build her dreams in one grand swoop — many do, and I applaud them — but because there is a peculiar dignity in building brick by brick, stone by stone, payment by payment. There is a sovereignty in saying, “I shall fund this vision myself, and it shall rise according to my rhythm.”
Too many in this modern age crave instant arrival. Instant beauty. Instant completion. We are taught to leap from before to after without honouring the middle. Yet it is the middle that strengthens the bones of a thing.
Anything assembled too quickly often wears its haste like cheap varnish.
Beauty that endures is almost always patient.
I had a moment, I admit, when exposed red wood beneath removed slats offended my eye so grievously that I nearly declared the entire cottage must be painted brown at once to hide the indignity. But restraint prevailed—a little primer, a little blending, a steady breath, and calm returned.
We do not repaint the whole house because of a temporary patch.
How often in life do we do just that?
My loves, we are learning not only to restore cottages, but to restore ourselves.
We are learning that something of value — something weighty enough to withstand weather and time — must be built with steadiness. The world rushes. The world scrolls, and the world demands reveal after reveal. Yet I believe our souls crave something else entirely.
We long for substance, we honour skilled hands, and we cherish the gradual unfolding of something made with care.
Scarlette Rose Cottage does not need to be finished in a fortnight to be worthy. She is already becoming, and so are we.
So if you find yourself in the middle — of a dream, of a renovation, of a healing, of a becoming — do not despise the scaffolding. Do not curse the exposed boards. Do not repaint your entire life in haste because one corner looks unfinished.
Prime what requires tending, set your tools in quiet order, select your finish with discernment, and proceed with steady faith, for what is raised with patience is the very thing that endures.
Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, LR
