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 Performance of Refuge

There was a time when I believed what unsettled me was the sight of so many women suddenly returning to gardens, breadboards, linen aprons, little ones beneath their feet, hymnals upon the table, and the old rhythms of homekeeping that the modern world once laughed nearly into extinction. Yet as the years have softened me a little, I do not believe the gardens themselves ever vexed me at all. I think what wearied my spirit was something quieter and far more difficult to name.

You see, my mermaid darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society, I belonged to that life long before it acquired a title, a category, or an algorithm. I stitched children’s clothing by hand because there was need of it. I baked bread because families must eat. I planted flowers because grief had nearly swallowed me whole, and I required beauty to remain tethered to the earth. I did not arrive at old-fashioned living through trend forecasting or marketability; I arrived there rather like a woman stumbling through fog toward the glow of a cottage window somewhere upon the moors.

And perhaps that is why the present spectacle feels at times so curious to me.

For I observe women speaking earnestly of “traditional womanhood” whilst simultaneously performing their lives for thousands of strangers beneath studio lighting and affiliate links; measuring their worth by visibility; studying one another endlessly for cues; comparing kitchens, figures, husbands, children, land, sourdough starters, dresses, and morning routines as though domestic life itself has become a pageant to win rather than a sanctuary in which to rest.

It is not my wish to speak cruelly of them. In truth, I believe many began sincerely. The longing itself is real. One can feel it plainly beneath the surface of it all; women ache for slowness now. They ache for belonging; for continuity; for the comfort of stirring soup whilst rain gathers at the windows; for husbands who return home at dusk; for children whose childhoods still smell faintly of grass and sunshine rather than screens and urgency. The longing is not false.

Yet somewhere along the way, the camera often becomes the centre of the room.

And there lies the contradiction that so many cannot yet perceive.

A truly old-fashioned life was never designed for constant observation. It unfolded quietly, almost invisibly at times. Women kept homes; no one photographed them. They mended garments, but no audience applauded. They preserved peaches by lantern-light and swept porches before sunrise without once considering whether the moment appeared beautiful enough to be consumed by strangers.

The irony, I think, is that many modern women now seek refuge from performance whilst simultaneously performing refuge itself.

I do not say this with bitterness anymore. Once, perhaps, I did. There was a season when imitation pricked me sharply because I remembered too clearly the laughter that met these ways before they became fashionable. I remember being thought peculiar for wishing to live gently; for speaking romantically of old houses and hand-sewn things; for desiring candlelight over brightness and meaning over spectacle. Then, almost overnight, the very world that mocked such yearnings began selling them back to women in cream-coloured squares and carefully curated reels.

But age does a peculiar thing to a woman when she allows it to ripen her rather than harden her.

One day, she ceases competing entirely.

She no longer requires the crowd to misunderstand her correctly.

And so now I observe, rather like an old Brontë heroine seated quietly near the fire whilst the storm exhausts itself outdoors. For what I seek no longer resembles performance at all. I do not wish to construct a life merely aesthetic enough to be envied; I wish to inhabit one honest enough to sustain the soul.

There is a difference.

One asks constantly to be seen.

The other remains beautiful even unwitnessed.

And perhaps that is the truest distinction of all.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim, LR

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

The Art of Setting a New Precedence And How Homemakers May Enrich Their Spiritual Path By Living An Olde Fashioned Lifestyle

Over the past thirty-two years, I have always joyously discovered the answers to my inquisitive nature in homemaking books and magazines from another time. In the olden days, nurturing a family and pursuing the domestic arts—cooking, decorating, and handicrafts was always a woman's most rewarding achievement and never considered second-rate burdens. In addition, I constantly felt a gnawing at the teeth, an internal question of why deep within my soul (what was then the Christian aspect of me) as though my well was in constant need of refilling. My well was prone to drying up no matter how much I laboured to be the best I could be. I would feel high as if my well runneth over, but the sentiments would always wither. My dear friends and readers, I could not make sense of it. I see this now with so many women, and it's quite unfortunate because they believe I mean to do evil when I am only here to do goodwill. Why did a woman of "God" have to work so entirely hard to be happy when I was living the best I knew that was humanly conceivable? This perpetual imbalance would deepen for decades until I became profoundly dedicated to uncovering the secrets of man's/woman's purpose. It may sound highly far-fetched to clamour that after my endeavour, I found the absolute truth. So it was in 2014 when my spiritual transformation commenced. Then another extraordinary moment took place when my son died. I went on a quest that no man under the sun would stop until I came out the other side with answers. The murder of a precious child will do that to a mother. 

How To Make Martha Stewart's Circa: 1996 Pecan Cranberry Biscotti Receipt

My dear friends,

Might you pour some tea? This morning I thought I'd share with you a receipt I have been making since 1996.  {the word receipt was first used in the medieval 14th century in replace of recipe.}

I'm not sure if you are a fan of Martha Stewart, but I am most assuredly and have been since my late teens.

When I was first a homemaker at the age of 19 I had a subscription to Martha's magazine. I would also invest in Martha's line of goods and lifestyle home management with vigour. The little money that I would acquire from clients, whether sewing, decorating projects, organising, or my craft booth, I would set aside to purchase a Martha Stewart item. It's unfortunate that I no longer possess those things after my divorce, but I know I will have a whole collection again. There is no fretting here. {smile}

The Art Of A Homemaker

courtesy of Pinterest

My Dear Friends,

I wrote this on my facebook page at one time and thought it was a delightful entry. I wanted to share it with you since leaving social media. 

"It's amazing how lovely common things become if one only knows how to look at them."~Louisa May Alcott

I slowly slip out of my cosy sheets, walk through the softly lit cottage and put the kettle on. I quietly set about my morning routine but firstly, putting on my baby pink robe. I say a silent prayer of appreciation thanking the sweet god's there was a time it was all just a dream; a thought in my mind.

I pull the lace curtains and make my way through the cow path to tend the chickens and then sweet Oliver the rabbit. The ladies are now laying small eggs. Though they are small, they are full of taste. May, {our sweet Plymouth Rock} bows down for a back scratch and then they follow suit going about their day. 

I am not in a rush, I plan my household management for the day. I then feel how the inspiration flows to me guiding me gently to paint pretty pictures.

A bit of reading, some spiritual encouragement and now the steaming cup of tea is in my hand. It keeps me warm and cosy with its thick honey. I breathe deeply and bask in the early hour. Soon the cottage will become alive. I am ready for it. I will carefully fix the bed, prepare breakfast, which is my favourite meal of all, fluff the cushions and start the wash. 

My mornings are never stressed, the home is peaceful and beautifully blessed. 

I am living the art of slow. I am a homemaker. 

Lovely Holiday Favourites For 2018

 My dear friends,
I wanted to share a few of mine along with my Beloved Gardeners favourites for this 2018 holiday season. I can't begin to tell you how often that I am asked about where I found a particular item that I'm wearing, what oil I've got on, or where I found this or that. So for pure delight, I thought I'd share a few things this year that I am especially fond of.

 1. Tasha Tudor Scarf~ I am often asked about where I collected my scarf. I get mine from Tasha Tudor and Family website and wear mine most days. Tasha Tudor Scarf

 2. I am a wellness advocate for dōTerra and have been since the company began. I used to struggle with severe depression, but since I began using Balance, I have been off all depression medications. If you are interested in trying a sample, send me a message and I'd be happy to send you a sample of balance. The only requirement is to pay for shipping. If you like it or want me to prepare you a special curated blend according to your needs I'd love to serve you.

 3. For the price, Barefoot Pink Moscato is my go-to wine. I add a smidge of lemon Lacroix to top off a glass and It's wonderful at the end of a workday. You can find barefoot at Walmart or any local grocery market.

 4. Bath and Body Works Fresh Balsam candle. I have found that it's pertinent to get your holiday candles early. I usually grab my holiday ones around Thanksgiving, if not they will be all sold out. The Bath and Body Works candles smell the most fragrant.

4. If you follow me on Youtube, you know I have been buying Zipp Fizz for about ten years. They give me all the fortified minerals I need and a kick of natural energy without the extreme highs and lows.

5. My little storybook, The Tale Of MerryMaid Scarlette Rose. I think that if you have a child or grandchild that loves mermaids and Beatrix Potter storybooks, they will love my book.

 6. Jeffrey swears by these Corona BP 6250 clippers. He likes the ones that have the softly curved handles and are a terrific choice for a lower end priced clipper.

 7. There are some evenings that while Jeffrey is cooking us supper or grilling out, he will enjoy a nice glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from Sutter Home. It has about 13% alcohol. It's his favourite.

 8. Jeffreys favourite candle cent. It's masculine, and I think it's a perfect smell too. You feel like your sitting in front of a roaring fire.

Whats some of your favourites?

Ardently Mothering

My dear friends,

Good Morning and Salutations. I am happily hot~handed writing to you on this cold crisp dewy damp day from Florida. I have been desperate for the cold, and I awoke this morning to receive a gift from the weather gods. I'm still bundled up, having tea and some scrambled eggs with cheese for breakfast. It's a delight to have fresh eggs from my chicken ladies.

How To Dress Like Tasha Tudor {Victorian Style}

 My dear friends,

I am having some earl grey tea and buttercream cookies. The cookies are Danish, which I happen to fancy, as I have Dutch descent.

A Multitude of Curiosities

 Hello friends,

I'm spending my days at the cottage working on the illustration for my very first children's book The Tale of MerryMaid Scarlette Rose™. I also spent a few days doing much-needed research and was able to get my company products trademarked and copyrighted. I feel quite pleased and genuinely proud of myself for so many things I've been independently accomplishing.  

 I also paint for myself when I'm not painting for my book, so that I will continue to hone my craft.

"I believe in magick"

This painting is for sale $25 sand dollars.  

"Ask~Beleive~Receive"

 This painting is for sale $25

I made a little jute line and hung my fall art to display for a photo shoot. Oliver was a terrific model.

I spend hours writing and practicing my penmanship and calligraphy. I have since I was a child. 

 I made an herb, flower drying rack for the cottage. I add baskets and all sorts of particulars to create a European look.

"Light Carrier"

 This painting is for sale $25.

A day at my childhood pond.

 A commissioned piece for my friend Janice.

 I've had so many things on my mind as of late. I've been walking to one of the ponds that are located two blocks from the cottage. I have really enjoyed the solitude and thinking deeply about a few particulars. One of those particulars is that without the announcement, I quietly deleted most of my social media platforms {all except Youtube and this blog} from my smartphone. I am quite a social person, and have loved sharing, but have felt in the last year I began to have a negative visceral effect everytime I'd open an app. I didn't delete my accounts but have found it to be something that I think will allow me to get many more ventures accomplished and I will have more energy and focus to place deeper and more consistent content on my youtube and here on my blog.

 It hasn't been twenty~four hours and yet I find I have such an open stream of joy in my day. I woke up enthusiastic about really making a go of my blog. In some weird way, I think that when one is not so available and connected everywhere, it leaves an open door for my true friends, viewers, and readers to seek out my work and to become more authentically engaged.

 During the fall months one of my dearest friends Janice that I met through the Tasha Tudor Take Peace sent me lovely fall leaves. I made garlands by stringing them all with needle and thread. I hung them in the cottage windows. The candles were all aglow and they were spectacular to look at.

My leaf garland I created for fall at the cottage "Staffordshire".

 I made my Mermaid Magical Peanut butter cookies for my tea time. I was able to find a lovely recipe to add to my recipe box. When my previous marriage ended it's funny how after settling in and beginning my new life I realized all the little things that I no longer had possession of. I no longer had any of my old recipes. It took me my whole life to create such a terrific collection, but I have learned how to begin a new with everything in my life. In speaking about this in a post one day, my friend Janice sent me along with her collected leaves, she sent me some vintage recipe cards and a cookie recipe from her own collection. I cried tears of appreciation that she felt impressed to share. I am so blessed by the universe/God every day.

I am going to continue to use this blog to share with you the many glimpses and moments of my life by documenting my journey and beauty of all the wonders I'm relearning.

I believe highly in spirit guides and know that one of those guides is Beatrix Potter. I have studied her life for over half of my life.

 I had the time to stop off at the nearest thrift store and found this solid brass candlestick holder for .75 cents, needlepoint serving tray for 1.25, and the fall needlepoint for .75 cents. I added some dried flowers to the sides to cover up the webbing, but I think it turned out quite charming.

 I love old-fashioned clothing and have worn old clothing since my childhood. I was slowly conditioned out of wearing the clothes that I felt most comfortable in however, I am slowly re-establishing a whole new wardrobe. I found this historical pattern on Etsy. I'm still seeking out the most perfect fabric for this pattern, so until then I have it all cut out and ready to go.

I bought several of Susan Branch's books for my newly created library at the cottage. I have loved her for so long, and she was a terrific encouragement as I rediscovered my art career. She's such an inspiration.