Let us settle in with a warm cuppa tea, for this may be one of those conversations that deserve a quiet heart and an open mind. I speak today not in haste but in that still, steady voice that arises when one has seen too much to be shaken and yet loves too much to remain silent.
As of late, there has been much chatter and some alarm surrounding the shifting tides in historic preservation, particularly in the wake of the DOGE initiative and its reach into departments that many of us hold dear. Among these, Section 106, that gentle but mighty guardian of our architectural memory, has been whispered about in worried tones and outright outrage.
But I invite you not into outrage, dear reader—I invite you into clarity, courage, and perhaps a bit of enchantment. For all things that seem to be falling may, in truth, be finding their place.
Let us walk together into this conversation—not with fear, but with a flame of reverence and resolve and with the unshakable knowledge that history is not only what has passed but what we choose to preserve.
In an age where so much is spoken of division and depletion, it is, I believe, a most elegant rebellion to stand in unwavering hopefulness—to perceive all things through the golden lens of possibility rather than despair. And so it is with the recent rumblings surrounding federal shifts and adjustments supporting specific cultural programmes, including institutions long devoted to curating our nation’s more difficult histories.
Some may interpret such developments as endings—closures, erasures, or acts of disregard. Yet, I would gently propose another lens entirely—one less concerned with what is seemingly removed and more enchanted by what is now being readied, for those whose vision, devotion, and timing are most aligned.
As a woman devoted to the preservation and resurrection of Chinsegut Hill, I have long trained my gaze not upon what is presently visible but upon the shape of what is forming. I hold a vantage not rooted in current appearances but in an elevated understanding—that all things are always working toward the realisation of one’s deeper call.
Thus, I do not interpret these changes as acts of diminishment but rather as divine rearrangements—a refinement of stewardship. Where once there were entitlements and committees, there shall now be custodians with soul, with a heart-born reverence for heritage and story.
Indeed, it is my thoughtful observation that President Trump, far from scorning history, has often spoken with unmistakable admiration for architectural splendour, classic craftsmanship, and the protection of American beauty. In various addresses, he has expressed fondness for grand historical spaces and their refinement. What some may view as dissolution, I view as delegation—a quiet transfer of care from impersonal institutions to individuals of conviction.
And so, I do not see cuts—I see clarity. I see the path cleared for those who are prepared to step forward with honour, vision, and respect for legacy. I see Chinsegut Hill is not neglected but is awaiting her rightful steward. And in my inward life, I already walk her halls.
Section 106, the noble provision of the National Historic Preservation Act, remains a guiding light—a safeguard that ensures that historic treasures are deeply considered and thoughtfully evaluated before being touched. And I, for one, am not only willing but wholly prepared to honour it—not from compulsion, but from a personal pledge to the past and those who shaped it.
If grants no longer cradle the old houses, then we must cradle them—those of us who speak gently to walls, mend shutters like prayer and understand that ivy has a memory. We, who light candles in the windows of history, so others may find their way back to meaning.
I believe this moment in time, however controversial, is an invitation to reimagine—to build businesses, buildings, and restore our intimacy with place, heritage, and reverence.
And amidst this unfolding conversation, a new decree has fluttered forth from the highest office in the land—a call not of destruction but of design.
Donald Trump’s latest executive order is shaking up the architectural landscape in a rather remarkable fashion. With a bold and unapologetic nod to tradition, he has revived his prior vision for “Beautiful Federal Civic Architecture,” directing that all new federal buildings honour classical and traditional design principles. This is a strikingly elegant gesture in a world so often swept away by the stark and impersonal.
As part of nearly one hundred directives issued upon his return to office, this 2025 initiative calls upon government leaders to ensure that public buildings are visually identifiable, rooted in regional heritage, and, above all, beautiful. His aim? To uplift and beautify public spaces and to reintroduce a sense of grandeur, order, and national pride in the very bones of our built environment.
Now, whether one leans in favour or not of such measures politically, there is something undeniably stirring—even comforting—in the notion that classic architecture is defended at the federal level. It is competitive that our beautiful historic buildings may once again whisper stories instead of merely standing cold and hollow.
As someone whose heart beats in rhythm with floorboards and finials, with brick hearths and timeworn thresholds, I cannot help but feel that this moment—yes, this very moment—is poised for something truly wondrous.
It is a turning of the page, not an ending, a gentle passing of the torch, not into obscurity, but into the careful, capable hands of those who still believe in beauty, legacy, and our collective responsibility to remember.
And remember, we shall.
For some of us, preservation is not policy—it is destiny.
And so I live, speak, and act from that certainty.
Chinsegut Hill is mine to love, to tend, to awaken.
And so it shall be.
Most affably yours til my next swim, R
