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

The Olde English Way of Homemaking

The Olde English Way of Homemaking

A Tender Reflection by Lady Raquel, The Victorian Mermaid

My dearest friends and Mermaid Darlings,

Pray, come in and draw your shawl a little closer, for I have lit a lantern in the window and brewed a small pot of tea, just as the Olde English women did on soft, whispering afternoons such as this. Today we speak of homemaking — not the hurried, fretful sort so common in our modern age, but the gentle, lyrical, old-world way of tending one’s home, as though it were a small and sacred kingdom under our care.

I daresay this topic has been fluttering about my thoughts for months now, tugging softly at my sleeve like a child eager to share a secret. And so, with a twirl of candlelight and the rustle of my petticoats, I should very much like to invite you into my musings on The Olde English Way of Homemaking.

A Return to Grace

There is, I believe, a particular magic that settles over a home tended slowly and with love — a magic that cannot be purchased from the shops nor summoned in haste. In the English countryside of old, homemaking was considered an art, a practice, a devotion. A woman tended her little dwelling as she would tend a garden: pruning gently, softening shadows, coaxing beauty from humble corners.

How different our lives become when we choose to weave a thread of delight through our domestic moments. A hot kettle becomes a ceremony. Sweeping becomes a quiet song. Lighting a candle becomes a small proclamation of hope. Oh, how the mood of a cottage changes when one brings back the reverent hush of old-world rhythms.

The Atmosphere of a Well-Loved Home

In my own tiny cottage — dear Scarlette Rose — I find myself quite besotted with the atmosphere of things. I adore a candle lit upon the writing desk, flickering against the spines of old books; a shawl draped just so over the arm of a chair; a kettle sighing its contentment upon the hob. These things speak to me more tenderly than any modern convenience ever could.

The Olde English homemaker understood that a home has a soul. Morning invites brightness and order; afternoon calls for industrious hands; and twilight — oh, twilight! — asks for lanterns, lamplight, and the soft, contemplative quiet that settles over the world like a blessing.

The Sacredness of Sweet Homemaking Rituals

One might think housework is mundane — but when performed with presence, it becomes downright enchanting.

A few of my favoured rituals:

• Tea at elevenses, taken with both hands wrapped ’round the cup.
• Sweeping the floors with long, graceful strokes, imagining I am brushing away stagnant energies.
• Washing the dishes by lamplight while whispering gratitude into the suds.
• Polishing a brass candlestick until it gleams like a small captured sun.
• Turning down the bed as though preparing a nest for a beloved soul (even if that soul is oneself).
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These quiet practices soften the mind and stitch a pattern of loveliness through the ordinary day.

The Tools of the Trade

I confess, I am dreadfully smitten with beautiful domestic tools. A pair of brass-handled kitchen shears, a wooden brush with natural bristles, a feather duster that looks as though it came from a Victorian scullery — these small treasures make the work feel not like drudgery but like participation in something noble.

When one uses lovely tools, one’s hands move more tenderly. One’s spirit lifts. One’s home responds.

And truly, is that not what homemaking is? A quiet conversation between house and heart?

The Romance of Seasonal Homemaking

Olde English homemakers aligned their domestic rhythms with the turning of the year — a practice I have come to adore with my whole heart. Michaelmas brought baked apples and warm, spicy flavours. Martinmas ushered in lanterns and gentle reflections. Yuletide brought evergreens and candles in every window. Springtide sang of linens flapping on the line and the first sweet blossoms in the hedgerows.

To follow the seasons is to remember that one’s home is a living thing, ever shifting and ever renewing.

The Homemaker’s Heart

Perhaps the tenderest truth of all is this:

Homemaking heals.

Oh, my lovelies — it truly does.

In the wake of storms, in seasons of sorrow, or in times when the world feels terribly unkind, tending one’s home becomes an anchor. The smoothing of a quilt, the arranging of a little bouquet, the quiet folding of linens — these acts are balm to the spirit.

I have known much heartache, as many of you know… and yet it is the art of homemaking that has often gathered up the broken bits of my soul and mended them gently with thread spun from hope.

A Mermaid’s Touch in a Victorian Cottage

And now we arrive at the curious melding of my own life — half Victorian homemaker, half olde-world mermaid. My heart belongs to the stories, to the ocean-tides of intuition, to the mysteries of the unseen. And so, even in my homemaking, the sea whispers to me. A bowl of shells here, a soft blue ribbon there, a lantern lit as though guiding sailors home from the mist.

My cottage is neither wholly English nor wholly aquatic, yet somehow both — and unmistakably mine. I encourage you, dear reader, to tend your home with your own signature enchantment.

Bringing Olde English Homemaking Into Your Modern Life

You need not live in a stone cottage with wild roses ’round the door to embrace these old-world ways. Simply begin with:

• One small ritual a day
• One corner made lovely
• One candle lit with intention
• One chore done slowly and without haste
• One breath of gratitude

Soon, your home will begin to feel like a sanctuary — a place that greets you tenderly and holds your spirit like a careful friend.

A Soft Closing Blessing

And so, my dearest Mermaid Darlings, may your kettles forever be warm, your linens soft under hand, and your home a haven of gentle enchantment. May your domestic days unfold with grace, beauty, and an old-fashioned charm that lingers like the scent of the evening air.

Most affably yours until my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel