You Are Not Behind

“Perhaps you are not behind at all. Perhaps you are simply in the middle of becoming.”

My sweet mermaid darlings and dear Stillwater ladies,

I have been quietly tucked away behind the scenes of late, tending small matters with patient hands and allowing my knees the slower sort of healing I confess I never imagined would require quite so much time. Yet perhaps there is something rather humbling in being made to move gently again; to sit more often beside one’s own thoughts; to curate quietly whilst the world rushes noisily onward without us.

I have still been gathering lovely things all the same; little thoughts; little hopes; candlelit notions for the settlement and the tea room and all the tender corners yet to come. And last week, the tide remained kind, therefore i left several small sweet messages upon the YouTube channel, which I hope may bring comfort to any heart presently wandering through its own unseen season of becoming.

I have also recently shared a rather long and heartfelt live conversation there, wherein I spoke candidly about exhaustion, perseverance, healing, and the curious business of continuing onward even when one feels somewhat weather-worn by the journey. Alongside it, I left a channelled reflection concerning the future of social media itself; a subject which seems to occupy the minds of so many creators presently navigating these ever-changing digital seas. If either finds its way to you, I hope it arrives as a friendly lantern rather than a lesson.

There is a peculiar sort of sorrow that settles upon the heart when one watches others arrive whilst she herself still appears to be travelling; and I do not mean the shallow sort of envy spoken of so freely now, but the quieter ache known mostly to women who have tended a vision for so very long that it has become stitched into the lining of their spirit.

I have known this feeling well, my mermaid darlings.

One woman opens the tea room; another publishes the book; another gathers the audience; another moves into the old house she dreamt of when she was scarcely more than a girl with ribboned hopes and flour upon her sleeves. Meanwhile, there you sit beside your own little life, wondering softly whether the tide has forgotten your name entirely.

Yet I have come to believe something rather different.

I do not believe our lives unfold according to punishment, favouritism, or abandonment at all; I believe they unfold according to readiness, alignment, and the peculiar intelligence of timing that very few souls trust whilst standing within it.

A seed does not apologise for remaining unseen beneath the earth.

It allows the dark to perform its holy work.

It softens; it breaks; it yields; and from the outside, one could very easily mistake the entire affair for failure. Nothing appears to happen for such a long while that the impatient observer assumes the thing has died entirely. Yet beneath the soil, a thousand invisible rearrangements quietly prepare for the precise moment the tender green shoot may rise without collapsing beneath its own becoming.

I think many women abandon themselves in this season.

They dig endlessly at the earth to check whether the roots are forming; they compare their unopened garden to another woman’s harvest; they decide the dream must not be theirs because it has not arrived quickly enough to soothe the nervousness of waiting.

And still the seed remains below; not dead, but occupied.

I have manifested extraordinary things in my own life; some so improbable they would sound almost fanciful if spoken plainly aloud. Yet even now, whilst living faithfully within the end of my desires, I find pieces still arranging themselves with a wisdom far older than my impatience. The cottage, the tea room, the settlement, the beautiful gatherings I see so clearly in my mind, all of it continues moving toward me in exact proportion to the hour appointed for it.

Not late; not withheld; not forgotten.

Merely unfolding.

We speak often now as though manifestation means immediate appearance; yet nature herself has never behaved in such a hurried fashion. The rose does not burst forth the very afternoon the seed is pressed into the garden bed; the tide does not rush inland because we stamp our slippered feet upon the shore and demand it come at once.

The old world understood this far better than we do.

Women once quilted hope slowly into their lives; they planted orchards whose fruit they might never fully enjoy; they stitched linens for homes not yet built; they trusted continuity more than spectacle. There was less panic in becoming because a deeper trust in seasons remained.

And perhaps that is what so many weary hearts truly hunger for now; not merely the manifestation itself, but permission to trust the unseen portion of their becoming without feeling left behind whilst it ripens.

My sweet Stillwater darlings, if your life appears quiet just now, do not mistake quietness for absence. The roots often labour hardest where no applause can reach them.

You are not behind.

You are beneath the soil for a little while longer, and strange though it may seem, that hidden season may prove the very making of you.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel

The Quiet Returning

My mermaid darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

The older I grow, my mermaid darlings, the less I believe steadfastness arrives in one glorious sweeping transformation, announced by trumpets and followed by a perfect string of disciplined days. It seems, instead, to enter quietly through the side door whilst a woman is occupied with ordinary things; lighting the lamp at dusk, rinsing teacups beneath warm water, pinning linen to the line before supper, returning once more to the life she has chosen even after the mood to do so has drifted out to sea.

I think many of us were taught to look for dramatic evidence of becoming. We wished to wake one morning entirely changed; suddenly organised, suddenly fearless, suddenly free from comparison, hesitation, distraction, and the strange little rebellions of the spirit that leave half-finished projects strewn about like abandoned ribbons after a fête.

Yet I have begun to suspect that a woman alters herself in much quieter ways than this.

Not through performance; through returning.

There is something rather sacred in the woman who continues gently onward without requiring each day to feel enchanted before she begins it. She rises; she tends what belongs to her; she keeps a few small promises; she places one foot before the other even whilst the heart remains soft and uncertain. In time, these tiny repeated acts begin gathering about her like threads upon a loom until at last a life appears where once there had only been longing.

I have noticed, too, that comparison loses much of its authority once a woman becomes occupied with the keeping of her own little world. One cannot simultaneously tend the roses and continually count another lady’s blooms across the hedge; eventually, the hands choose where they shall remain.

Perhaps this is why I no longer wish to build my days around sudden bursts of inspiration alone, lovely though they may be. Inspiration is a charming visitor; steadfastness keeps the hearth warm through winter.

And so lately I have been teaching myself a gentler form of devotion; not harsh discipline, not punishment, not the endless scolding of one’s own nature, but a quieter constancy. A return. An appearance. One honest offering placed upon the day before sunset.

Perhaps devotion reveals itself in smaller ways than we once imagined; in the reel quietly filmed though no grand wave of inspiration arrived beforehand, in the page written whilst certainty still lingered somewhere beyond the horizon, in the garden watered despite no eyes admiring it, and in the faithful lighting of the lamp simply because evening had come at last.

There is, I think, a hidden dignity in such things.

The world often speaks of strength as though it must harden a woman in order to prove itself real, yet I have found the opposite to be true. Some women grow softer as they become strong. Their voices lower; their movements steady; they cease performing urgency and begin inhabiting their own lives fully at last.

I should like to become one of them.

And perhaps, my dears, that is all steadfastness truly is; not the dramatic reinvention of the self, but the quiet faithful returning to what one loves long after applause, mood, and novelty have wandered elsewhere.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim, LR

A Few Gentle Observations on the Keeping of Hens

From the Cottage Garden, for my Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society

My dear mermaid darlings,

There are certain affections one carries from childhood which, if left undisturbed long enough, quietly return to us in adulthood as though they had only stepped away for a short walk about the garden. My fondness for hens has always been such a thing.

Long before my little patch of cottage living came into its present form, I imagined a life where animals wandered peacefully about the garden — rabbits in the grass, hens scratching politely beneath the hedges, and the gentle murmur of creatures who seemed quite content simply to exist beside one another.

At last, in the year 2016, that small dream began to take shape when my first little gathering of hens arrived. I remember them still — the curious tilt of their heads, the dignified way they inspected the garden beds, and the soft rustle of feathers that soon became as familiar to me as the creaking of old floorboards in the cottage.

Since that time, I have kept hens in much the same manner, and I confess the methods have served us rather well for nearly a decade.

If I may offer one gentle suggestion to those who dream of keeping animals of their own, it would be this: whenever possible, welcome them into your care from the very beginning of their lives.

Young creatures possess a remarkable openness to the world around them, and the habits of their little hearts are shaped most beautifully during those earliest days.

It may sound whimsical — and perhaps it is —, but I have long believed that animals respond quite readily to the expectations placed upon them with affection and consistency. One might call it a form of quiet manifestation, and in addition, I simply say that creatures, much like people, flourish when they are loved as though they already belong.

Over the years, I have welcomed kittens who grew into remarkably gentle companions, roosters who escorted me faithfully to the postbox like small feathered sentries, and hens who seemed to regard our daily conversations as perfectly natural. I kiss their soft heads, speak to them kindly, and treat them as fellow residents of the cottage grounds rather than mere livestock.

Not everyone approaches their animals in quite this way, of course, though I cannot help believing that affection improves nearly everything in life — hens included.

As for their care, I have kept their nourishment pleasantly simple and nourishing, gathering a few humble staples in generous quantities and preparing their food with a bit of patience.

I ferment their feed, which keeps their digestion lively and their health strong. Among the ingredients I keep on hand are whole corn, oats, black sunflower seeds, and a rather surprising addition: fish-flavoured kitten kibble, which provides the extra protein hens require to remain vigorous and productive. Their own eggshells, once dried and returned to the compost, serve as a fine source of calcium, while oyster shells provide additional strength for egg laying.

During the warmer months, they enjoy oats, the occasional crust of bread, and whatever small treasures they discover while roaming about the grounds. In winter, however, I favour whole corn — never the cracked sort — for the simple reason that whole kernels retain their natural oils and nourishment. As hens grow their winter down and continue laying, their little bodies require greater stores of energy, and whole corn provides it most admirably.

Water, I have learned, deserves equal attention. Chickens share many ailments through stagnant water, so I refresh their drinking supply each day without fail. The larger water pails receive a thorough cleaning twice weekly, and when I first refill them, I add a single drop or two of tea tree oil, which seems to keep the water pleasantly fresh.

To discourage mites and other unwelcome guests, I scatter diatomaceous earth throughout their coop and dusting areas, allowing the hens to keep themselves quite comfortably groomed.

Their feed remains available throughout the day, though in winter I offer a small cup of whole corn in the morning and another at dusk, which they accept with considerable enthusiasm.

And if ever the flock appears in need of a cheerful pick-me-up, I must confess that the humble hot dog — cut into small pieces — works wonders for their spirits. It is hardly a grand culinary offering, yet the hens receive it with a delight that suggests one has presented them with a royal banquet.

Such is the quiet life of hens in the cottage yard.

They wander beneath the sun, gossip softly among themselves, and lay their eggs with the steady reliability of creatures who ask very little in return for their companionship.

For my part, I cannot imagine the garden without them. They are small characters in the unfolding story of this place — companions to the rabbits, subjects for the occasional page of a storybook, and constant reminders that a simple life, tended with affection, may hold more charm than one ever expected.

And so, my dear mermaid darlings, should you ever feel the quiet longing for hens of your own, do not dismiss the notion too quickly. A small flock has a way of turning an ordinary patch of earth into something that feels rather like a story.

A Small Provision List for the Keeping of Happy Hens

For my mermaid darlings who wish to gather their supplies, if you should ever decide to welcome a few hens into your own garden life, these are the humble provisions I keep quietly on hand throughout the year. They are simple things, easily found, and they have served my little flocks faithfully for nearly a decade.

For their daily nourishment

• Whole corn (never the cracked variety)

• Oats

• Black sunflower seeds

• Fish-flavoured kitten kibble (for protein)

• Oyster shell (for strong eggs)

From the kitchen

• Dried and crushed eggshells (returned to them for calcium)

• Bread crusts (especially in the warmer months)

For occasional cheerful treats

• Small pieces of hot dogs or little sausages

(a most enthusiastic reward among hens)

For their health and comfort

• Diatomaceous earth: Sprinkle in their food daily and scatter about their run (to discourage mites and pests)

• Tea tree oil (one or two drops for fresh water)

For winter strength

• Extra whole corn morning and evening

(as hens grow their winter down and require more warmth and energy)

A small note from the garden

Always keep fresh water available to your hens, and change it daily if you are able. Their health is greatly protected by clean water and simple care.

And above all, speak kindly to them, handle them gently, and raise them from their earliest days if possible. Hens who grow up in affection become the most charming little companions of mine that anyone could wish.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel