What a gathering it became! I was blessed beyond measure to meet the loveliest of women, whose gentle souls and shining eyes spoke of sisterhood and spirit. We conversed of mediumship and of that sweet veil betwixt the living and the departed, where voices of love ever whisper. We spoke, too, of motherhood and womanhood—how these sacred callings must be nurtured as natural blossoms of our being. We encouraged one another, weaving threads of strength and tenderness, until our parlour was rich with the tapestry of true fellowship.
We did not shy away from tender subjects—death, the loss of children, the sorrow of miscarriage—yet even here we found beauty, for in speaking openly we discovered not despair, but the deep treasures of compassion and womanly understanding. And as if the unseen world would seal our communion with a sign, a little bird tapped and tapped against the window of the tea room—an omen most poetic, whispering that spirit was present amongst us.
Oh, how my soul rejoices! To know that these gracious ladies needed not to be coaxed or cajoled, but simply believed—believed in the vision, in the dream, in the necessity of such gatherings for our community. Their faith, their support of my books and my labours, their simple willingness to plunge into the waters of something new and good—these things filled my heart with unspeakable joy. Truly, it was one of the happiest days of my earthly pilgrimage.
And when the last teacup was set aside and the parlour fell quiet, I felt my precious Sawyer whisper in the stillness, “See, Momma—you are doing it!” Ah, sweetest comfort to a mother’s heart!
And to you, dearest Ro—you are as an angel descended, a shining star dropped into my parlour, and I love you beyond all measure.
Take Joy, my darling companions, for we are only at the beginning of a most enchanting voyage.
I have of late been treading the deep corridors of ancestral memory, tending to the tender wounds of childhood and soothing the old ache of abandonment. And what a revelation hath dawned upon me! For I perceive that my fervent longing to restore and preserve noble houses such as Chinsegut Hill Manor, its lands, and its retreat, was in truth the mirror of my own yearning to rescue my very soul.
How profound the acknowledgement—that to save a once-bleeding, forgotten home, though “technically” preserved in name, was but to swallow a bitter draught of empty promises. For oft have I heard from lips in lofty stations fine proclamations of care, gilded words of grand intent, yet ever did those syllables melt away into mist, leaving only silence and neglect. Money was cast like ribbons upon a worn garment to feign concern, but the spirit of the place, like a discerning cat, perceived the insincerity.
Once upon a time, I bent my steps to tilt the scales, hoping the masculine powers might behold my labours with honour. Yet, as life will echo our inner wounds, my offerings were spurned, my dreams dismissed as fanciful, my voice muffled beneath the louder tones of men. Again and again, they plucked my bright ideas, repackaged them, and handed them to others, all while dismissing me as too whimsical, too unqualified, too much the dreamer.
But hark, my loves—here is the gladsome news! For whilst others were weaving false nests, I have been weaving the golden threads of my inner healing. And as I laboured in the quiet garden of my soul, I blossomed. No longer do I linger at the doors of “high society,” begging admittance. I am now amongst the circles of true doers and dream-makers, whose endeavours bear real and lasting fruit.
Let us be clear: preservation of our lands and histories shall not be secured by plaintive cries nor by cloaking ourselves as victims. Nay, none shall hear us until we, as women, hear ourselves and crown ourselves sovereign. I have soared beyond the limits of those who once mocked me, for I reap now the harvest of sovereignty, optimism, and manifesting power. For verily, when I decree a manifestation, the heavens themselves bow to make it so.
Henceforth, let us stride forward with elegance and assurance. True feminine power is not the shrill clamour of weary old feminisms, but the radiant strength of a woman clothed in grace, draped in lace, her hair flowing like rivers of silk, the sovereign queen of her own castle. She speaks with gentleness, she walks with beauty, yet her might is undeniable. This, my darlings, is women’s empowerment—sacred, refined, irresistible as the tide.
Most affably yours til my next swim, R
