My dear Mermaid Darlings, and the ladies of Stillwater,
I have been thinking about how much time we can spend explaining something we might otherwise be quietly bringing to life, especially when the people about us cannot yet see what we see, and we begin to feel that we must make them understand before we carry on.
In 2019 I remember Sawyer coming to visit whilst I was in the middle of a cottage renovation, and how readily I began explaining where everything would go and what I intended to do, as though I ought to account for the unfinished state of things before he could possibly enjoy being there.
He looked at me and said, “Mum, you don’t need to explain everything. I see what you’re doing, and it’s going to be so cool.”
I have remembered those words with such affection, partly because they were his, but also because he gave me the lovely feeling of being understood whilst everything still stood a little crooked and unfinished about me. He could see that I was making something, and he trusted me to find my way through it without requiring a defence of every decision.
Nowadays I rarely if ever catch myself explaining and, I think of him, and now I might put that same care into the work itself instead of trying to persuade someone to believe in what I have not yet finished.
Of course, we like the people we love to understand us, and there is nothing unreasonable in wishing that someone might look at our little beginnings with affection. Yet there comes a point when explaining the same dream again leaves us weary, particularly if each conversation attempts to bring us back to the same doubts, with scarcely any time left for the thing we had hoped to accomplish that day.
I learned some time ago to let those conversations rest, and to accept that a person may care for me without sharing my imagination, just as I may care for them without asking them to approve every turn my life takes. I can listen to thoughtful advice and still return to my own work with my judgement intact, allowing what I make to introduce itself in its own time.
The people who feel at home with it have a better chance of finding me if I continue, and I should rather spend an afternoon making something lovely than rehearsing another explanation of why I wish to make it at all.
Even so, I have had to learn that giving my time to a dream does not require me to hurry through the rest of my life, although for many years I behaved as though everything pleasant waited somewhere beyond the next completed task.
Before my dear boy chap Sawyer died, I was forever trying to get things achieved and finished, imagining that I would feel settled once I had caught up, put everything in order, or worked quite hard enough to deserve an afternoon of ease. Somehow, whenever I approached that promised afternoon, I discovered another job that seemed to require my immediate attention, and the rest I had intended to take slipped politely out of reach.
People would tell me that I needed to relax and enjoy myself, and although I understood what they meant, I scarcely knew how to begin when sitting still left me feeling that I ought to be useful. I had carried from childhood the belief that I must earn my place by making myself useful, and with so little faith in my own worth, I scarely knew when I had given enough; I would offer more than I could comfortbaly spare, then search my pockets for some last little kindness, as though I still owed something for the simple priviledge of being there.
I could sit in a chair whilst mentally working my way through the house, finding things to mend, rearrange or improve, until I had quite exhausted myself without moving very far at all.
I had become so accustomed to earning my keep each day that I struggled to imagine feeling worthy of kindness when I had little to show for my hours.
I suspect some of you will recognise that feeling, particularly if you learnt early to be helpful, undemanding, or very good at getting on with things, and carried those habits into a life where nobody quite knew how much they cost you.
In my own case, keeping busy also spared me from spending much time with feelings I did not know what to do with, because there was always a cupboard to sort or a project to begin whenever an uncomfortable thought approached. I could give my hands something to manage and postpone the quieter business of admitting that, beneath all my efforts, I felt deeply unhappy.
After losing Sawyer, I began to understand how much of my life I had hurried through whilst trying to make it satisfactory, and how easily I had postponed the ordinary pleasures that might have sustained me along the way.
I still love making things, and anyone who has seen the cottage will know that I have gathered enough projects to keep myself occupied for a considerable while, but I want to enjoy living here whilst the work continues. I want to notice a cat settling beside me, hear the ducks conducting their afternoon affairs, and admire the zinnias without immediately deciding that I ought to weed beneath them.
Perhaps this is part of what draws me towards the older rhythms I associate with Britain and parts of Europe, where I have so often admired the willingness to linger over a visit or give an ordinary pleasure its proper time. I would not presume that everyone there lives this way, any more than every American rushes about as I once did, but I feel an affection for that unhurried manner and the respect it seems to offer the day.
I say this with affection, for I can still catch myself making a list so ambitious that the woman expected to complete it would have very little opportunity to sit in the garden she has worked so hard to create.
I do not imagine that anyone will read a few words from your dear ole razzie and suddenly know how to set aside habits she has carried for most of her life, especially when there are people and animals to care for, bills to pay, and work that truly does need doing. I only hope that sharing a little of my own experience might make it easier to recognise the moments when we ask more of ourselves than the day reasonably requires.
Perhaps there is one harmless thing we could leave until tomorrow, or a small pleasure we could enjoy without first completing something else, allowing ourselves to discover that the afternoon holds together perfectly well when we loosen our grip a little.
My Alchemy of Mermaidology subliminals belong to this same wish for a gentler and more joyful life, and if you enjoy listening, I hope they offer a quiet companion whilst you practise allowing kinder thoughts to become familiar. I speak of these things because I remember how unpleasant it felt to live beneath my own constant scrutiny, always trying harder and finding fault whenever my efforts fell short of the impossible standard I had set.
These days, I would like to give my dreams the patience I give something growing in the garden, tending them faithfully whilst allowing myself to enjoy what has already taken root.
When I think again of Sawyer standing amongst the renovation, I remember how easily he let me feel hopeful about it all, and how little he needed me to explain before he offered his encouragement. I should like to carry more of that kindness into the way I speak to myself, especially on the days when everything takes longer than I expected and the finished picture remains mine alone to see.
If you are making a life that others do not yet understand, I hope you will give yourself that kindness too, and leave a little time amongst the making for the life you are already in.
Most affably yours til my next enchanting swim, Lady raquel
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