The Paper, the Brush, and What Follows

My mermaid darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There are mornings when one does not so much begin a thing as return to it, and I found myself thus today, with the small and faithful instruments of my work laid quietly before me—the papers of a gentler grain, the paints of a softer temper, and those dear, newly gathered pieces that feel as though they might have once rested upon the table of some English lady, long acquainted with both patience and delight.

I had meant only to arrange them, to see how the light might take to their surfaces, yet it is rarely so simple; for in the placing of a brush or the smoothing of a page, something begins to stir of its own accord, and one senses—without announcement—that a story has come near again, not in any hurried fashion, but as a tide that knows precisely when to return.

So I have begun, though I should not call it beginning, for it feels rather like continuing a conversation that had only paused, and in this quiet resumption, there is a kind of steadiness I have come to trust more than any grand intention.

And as these small preparations take on their meaning, I note, almost in passing, that my work now sits amongst the top twenty in my group of The People’s Artist—a circumstance I receive much as I would an unexpected letter, with a certain stillness and a gentle curiosity as to what may follow. 

It seems the matter moves forward, simply enough, by public vote, freely given, and I have left it below, just as it stands, for any who may wish to wander there of their own accord.

For now, I shall return to my table, where the paper waits, and the story—ever patient—keeps its place beside me.

Most affably yours til my next enchanting swim, Lady Raquel