States, Sovereignty, and the Mermaid’s Looking-Glass; Why Hatred Outside Is Always a Call Within

Dearest mermaid darlings,

I have lately been at my little labours upon several pursuits pertaining to Scarlette Rose Cottage, a place most dear to my heart. Perhaps you have already been following along upon Instagram, where I scatter crumbs of my days in the form of stories and reels, sharing my small doings and whimsical undertakings. There shall be more news of these cottagey adventures in my following epistle, but for now, with a steaming cup of tea beside me, I felt compelled to pen a few musings concerning the curious climate of our present world.

Oft do I find myself delighting in the company of ye olde YouTube, where many a kindred spirit gathers; such lovely souls who leave the most heart-warming remarks. There is always some little treasure to be found there, whether one seeks merriment, musings, or quiet inspiration.

And yet, amidst the beauty and gaiety, my thoughts wander to the heavier notes of the age we live in. Thus, I write today in hope of shining a lantern of joy, compassion, and remembrance upon the path.

When Hatred Appears in the Looking-Glass

When we cast our gaze outward and behold quarrels, politics, and leaders who rouse great ire; when neighbours seem misguided and family trod paths most strange; it is all too easy to imagine that they are the blight upon our peace. We suppose that if only we could silence or sweep them away, the world would at last be sweet and still.

Yet, as Neville Goddard so sagely reminds us, the world is but ourselves pushed out. Each frown we spy, each quarrel we decry, is but our own reflection peering back at us through the glass. Every hatred is a signal; every judgment, a whisper, reminding us of the forgotten places within where love has not yet lit her lamp.

Religion, Control, and the Masks We Wear

In times past, I raised my children beneath the banners of religion—Mormon in one season, Pentecostal in another—and from such strictures I gathered this truth; it is not the faith itself we must scold, but the habit of control dressed in holy garments.

Parents, eager to preserve appearances, may withhold love if a child does not fit the mould; and thus the child learns a sorrowful lesson: “I shall play the part they demand until no one is watching; then only will I be free.” This is how hypocrisy is born.

No soul was meant to live in a box. We are not broken beings who must strive endlessly for perfection; we are already perfect—sovereign, radiant, whole.

The God Within

The world proclaims that we have fallen; yet it is a fib most dreadful. We are gods and goddesses in disguise, each bearing the luminous spark of “I AM.” The Great Creator is not one solitary monarch on a throne of clouds; it is the chorus of all souls together, each a perspective of the Divine.

When I speak and am not heard, it is not for want of truth; it is simply that the frequency of love rings high, and only those attuned to its key may hear the melody. I must not lower my vibration for comfort’s sake; rather, I must continue in communion with my Mermaid Inner Being, who abides always in joy and splendour.

States of Consciousness: The Mermaid’s Tale

Neville taught that all is but a state of consciousness. Joy is a state; sorrow is a state; gossip, hatred, compassion—all are but costumes we may wear.

Once upon a time, I was a mermaid of Weeki Wachee Springs, wearing my glittering tail, swishing through sapphire waters, smiling at wide-eyed children. That was a state. When I climbed from the spring, laid aside my fins, and merrily introduced roller-skating birds to the crowds, that was another state. Neither was truly me; both were roles, masks, garments of the moment.

And so it is in life. When we dwell in hatred, it is but a state. When we rise into love, it too is a state. The “devil” itself is nought but the state of disowning our own divinity.

The Choice Before Us

To awaken is to remember that we are the playwright, the actress, and the entire stage. We may choose to dwell in bitterness or bask in joy; to clothe ourselves in gossip or in kindness. The looking-glass of the world will always reflect the garment we wear.

So, the next time you feel inclined to despise another for their politics, their faith, or their folly, pause, dear heart. Gaze gently into your own Mermaid’s Looking-Glass and whisper, “What state am I in? What part of my own divinity have I forgotten?”

And then—choose again.

For the sweetest truth of all is this: we are the gods of our reality, mighty and beautiful, capable of weaving enchantment with every thought and every breath.

 

A Cottage Mermaid’s Benediction

May your heart be as a lantern, ever glowing with kindness;

May your words be soft as sea-foam, bearing truth without harm;

May your steps be guided by the quiet knowing that you are sovereign, whole, and radiant;

And may you always remember, dearest soul, that you are the very spark of the Divine,

capable of weaving beauty wherever you go.

Swim gently through this life, for you are loved beyond measure.

Most affably yours til my next swim, Lady R

The Art of Sorting

My dear mermaid hearts, 

In the last few weeks, I have sorted clothing, crafting items, old scrapbooking containers, supplies, books, furniture, childhood diaries, paintings, ideas, theories, and my thoughts, dear me.

My cherished mermaid hearts, at long last, I believe I have captured that coveted Victorian old-timey charm I’ve so ardently sought for our dear cottage. As you may recall, the windows, though fashioned of modern white plastic, have been artfully transformed to mirror the visage of a stone cottage with a thatched roof. Next year, we shall embark upon the stoning of the exterior and, thereafter, replace the tin roof with one of thatched design in the manner of Somerset. 

It strikes me as a most wondrous manifestation, for if you gaze upon the painting of Mrs Threadgoode’s cottage in "The Tale of the Christmas Bunnies" (due out next month, as shown in the illustration below), the likeness is uncanny. It reveals how we, as conscious creators, continually weave the fabric of our reality through the loom of imagination. Indeed, there is an out-picturing of our inner visions.

I concocted the green paint swatch with my own hands for the original hue hails from Beatrix Potter’s Hilltop home in Sawrey. Alas, as the paint company in the UK does not dispatch their wares across the seas, I procured the swatch and matched it myself. With this homemade swatch in hand, I ventured to Lowe’s, where I crafted my own sample, later perfected by the fine artisans at Sherwin-Williams. Undoubtedly, Sherwin-Williams stands as the finest purveyor of paints, a venerable Victorian establishment founded in 1866. I have christened this hue with my own title—'Sage and Pickle.'

Indeed, all of the research for my "A Victorian Mermaid (Louis Vuitton) Agenda" (a planner that has manifesting, self-development, time management and the critical elements to building a beautiful "Take Joy" fairytale life) is all due to my decades of study, theory, systematic testing, organisation of mindset work and efficient time management skills. My teachings and my planner kits (all individually handmade, by the way) will be the manifestation of my years of self-mastery and skill. That sounded a bit like I was 'bigging' myself up, and i make no bones about it. I am rather boastful regarding my organisational time management skills, darling. You know, as well as I do, that we must be our own best cheering advocate. Upon this cheering of myself, please afford yourself the notion I believe deeply in myself. In order to be able and complete in stating that boldly, it took me decades to do with the deep inner work of healing all of my chakras and in regards to my religious wounds and trauma. I am so proud of myself because today, I can say that with no one's help and all of my blood, sweat, and tears, I accomplished what many women never do in a lifetime. I fully intend to share my processes with you in the coming months.

I have a well-detailed book to arrive on shelves in January (the above photo is a bit cropped, but it will look relatively close to this with a few bits of gold trim on the sides), as well as my planner kits and programs you will be able to purchase. I want to share and teach women how to heal themselves and reach their most tremendous potential. Once upon a time, not so long ago, I desired for everyone to be a part of my programs and teachings. However, my darling, as I've expanded even more so and healed nearly all of my trauma, I now conclude this space here is where only high-vibrational women feel compelled to participate in our self-love voyage. This assumption is not a consideration of anything other than we as bygone mermaids wading in our mirrored reflection of matching our likeness to another equalled vibrational bygone mermaid. In fact, low vibrational landlocked women will not want to be a part of our (Stillwater- A Petticoat Society) mermaid community because, as you know, in spirituality, one must be equally yoked with another. A low-frequency person will find the notions we discuss (the particulars i speak about here and on ye ol' tube) a bit off-putting. They can't resonate with high vibrational mermaid beings; the law simply doesn't work that way. 

In addition, I feel you should also regard yourself as a wondrous marvel, a gem of the rarest kind, whose brilliance doth illuminate the very fabric of existence. 

My blog doth serve as a sanctuary for Bygone Mermaids (ladies) of the highest celestial vibration, where only those of the most exalted essence may gather and partake in the splendour of elevated discourse. Our lives, tho', without perfection, were not intended for the original admonition of 'The Great Creator's' objective. The aim was continually purposeful to advancement and expandedness, to rediscover our fierce resilience, build faith (trust) and Take Joy. We are to create our heaven, our mindset of conscious reality. My life has repeatedly found favour from the highest; therefore, this is why i so deeply love sharing with you, my dear mermaid hearts; how very much when we assemble here, we exchange love and a like-minded connotation of belonging.

You must know, indeed you must, that all of my prattling on this blog, Instagram, and YouTube is because I profoundly want to enable women to become their most excellent versions of themselves. In my humble opinion, we as women have gone on for far too long, mustering against one another rather than converging. I am not here to do this work for you but rather to guide you through your navigational map, your true north. Anyone claiming to be of the collective must never hinder one's sovereignty nor translate a dependence upon another soul. For one, this mindset is located on the lowest scale of the map of consciousness and breeds low frequency. One, i do not encourage leaning on someone. We must learn to trust ourselves, for when folks rely on another at the expense of losing their self-worth, personal empowerment is detrimental and creates false idolatry. I've seen many o' people practise this with pastors, bishops, men of the cloth, and celebrities. It also creates dependence in a "leader" where their ego becomes inflated with disadvantages of glorification as idol notions of thinking one person is above another.

I have been working out all the bits and bobs for my planner kits; therefore, I will have everything lovely, pleasantly beautiful, and organised. I plan to create each planner kit by hand, dear ladies. I can relatively quickly remind myself that we are cheering and tethered together as friends. 

I enjoy pondering life in my old Victorian cosy chair by the terrace window. The bird feeder hanging in Sawyer's pear tree is rather enjoyable. I like to sit and perch in my ol' Victorian seat as if i am a mermaid queen. In the last five years (can you believe we've been here at my folks that long), as i am a bit like Goldilocks in trying to find a spot where i can engage in the solemn quietness of slow living, I have missed having my own little chipmunks nest, which is why i must sort and organise. My serenity and productivity in working on my art, manuscripts, or planner kits are essential. My moon sign is in cancer, and i have prominent Virgo house placements, which is why i am an extreme perfectionist and highly organised. By the way, that is a good thing; when the requirement is efficiency and accomplishments, I am your go-to buzzy lass.

I created a little sitting room for my Beloved Gardener, Jeffrey Shawn, and me. I have taken some time away from social media due to the several programs I've been writing about, planning our first social gathering at Chinsegut Hill, and my two books coming out within months. 

Last week, i posted several videos on ye ol' tube, and i shall leave you with this one, which i think you might enjoy. 

My darling, do not be remiss. Please subscribe to my YouTube channel, like, and comment, as this allows the algorithm to go all abuzz, and my mermaid message in a bottle will spread far and wide upon the ocean seas. Thank you in advance for heeding the call. 

I love you, and as always, i am most affably yours til my next swim.

Love, Razzy 

A Brilliant Manifesting Story And My Love Of Laura Ingalls Wilder

I had the entirety of a post of over three thousand words written for you, my dear lovely friends, and lost the totality. When I realised there wasn't a cat's chance in hell without claws of finding it, I must admit I got the morbs for a moment. However, I now feel sufficient, so let me get on with the post.

First, allow me to share a lovely manifesting story. I have thousands; however, it is very tricky to share all of them. Yet, I think you would like to hear the one about my daughter Zoë Kennedy. Zoë Kennedy rang me a week ago and asked if I would manifest for her. As a child, I took her to The Phantom of the Opera in Orlando, Florida, and she loved it so much it created an affinity for the broadway musical, and she eternally wished to go to the one in New York City. In February of 2023, the musical will end permanently, embarking on Zoë Kennedy to see it beforehand. Unfortunately, she had no financial means of getting opera tickets, airfare or lodgings. So, I said I would manifest for her, we hung up the phone, and I performed the visual technique before state akin to sleep I use from Neville Goddard. 

The manifestation took a week to materialise. Zoë Kennedy called me last Friday and said she was gifted round-trip airline tickets to New York, two tickets front row mezzanine to Phantom of the Opera and that she and Ethan's friends that live in New York invited them to crash at their flat for free for their week's visit. She said, "Mummy, thank you so much; you're magical!" She was so excited, and I am thrilled for her in turn! I love hearing success stories when I manifest for others. It thrills me. It costs nothing and is available to everyone to create their reality. 

I was a late bloomer growing up. However, when it concerns my love of Laura Ingall's Wilder, there is no question I have an immense fondness for her. As many of you know who've remained avid readers of my blog know, I grew up with two parents in the home. My father stayed in a constant state of slosh til I was eleven (No worries we’re very good now). My devoutly religious mum was a stay-at-home mother. I have no complaints; my mother sheltered me to the degree that she kept my siblings and me in church three times a week and two solid weeks when there were revivals and church activities. (Of course, as you know, I was Pentecostal until seventeen and later became a Mormon until I left theology altogether at forty-three.) 

My mum, a stay-at-home mother, was rather keen on us children being very smart, which meant reading was essential. So when I was young, I looked forward to the book fair order forms. Do you remember them? Before the fair even happened, the excitement commenced with the order forms. I would scour over it for hours, dreaming of all the books I wished to order. I would mark them in pencil at first, then in pen. Money in our home was plentiful at times and meagre at others, depending on spending habits that month. I believe many folks come from backgrounds that were not episodes of Little House on the Prairie having fathers like Pa. Perhaps that was the appeal as a little girl.

My father was in the home during my youth; however, he wasn't an emotional role model; in truth, I developed trust and men issues that would expand considerably for decades. In many ways, I raised my children with similar functions. The female figures (mothers) I remember being raised amongst were not respected, including my mother. The men ruled the roost. Today my independence and desire to be a powerful force in the female facet of this generational society is highly due to feeling downtrodden. My standpoint on ladies' value, being adored and respected, is vital. One shan't get it contorted; I find the role of a man in society (and in the home) quite significant too, yet there is no one above or below; we are all one. Men have their place, as does woman. They both work beautifully together when on equal footing. Many parents in the seventies (when I grew up), I believe, tried their best and were well-intended; that's all I can hope for, and I will continue onward. I refuse to reference my circumstances as perpetuating grim stories of my lot unless diving to depths of understanding and presenting logic facilitates growth. Too often, that state of woe is when too much emphasis is placed on victimhood memorialising. 

To try and fill in the backstory about Laura Ingalls Wilder, I'll have to take you back to when the fixation first began. I've spoken briefly in other posts about my neighbours from childhood that lived down the lane. They lived as close to the little house on the Prairie in real life, not by their desire to live old-fashioned. I know it was their poor mindset mentality, yet I never viewed them in that manner. I loved the sentiments when I'd feed (wood they cut themselves) Kate's 19th-century stove. They didn't have indoor plumbing; instead, they had an outhouse, gardens, a stream for water sources, fruit trees, and farm animals. I didn't particularly appreciate watching the slaughtering of the pigs or killing the chickens; however, knowing how food was obtained created newfound respect for it. I know it's a part of real life; however, i am a sentimental fool and wholly sensitive. As I would make my way to my neighbours nearly every day, I would also look forward to watching Little House on the Prairie. I was not only fascinated with the storylines, but I was more intrigued by intentionally focusing on the little house and barn, how they dressed and what everything looked like as a whole. I was enamoured with it, obsessed. I checked out the entire series of books, and as soon as I read through them, I continued that strategy over and over. I then began mimicking Laura; the schoolchildren thought I was mad, though I didn't care. I've always held a disposition of heaped delusional confidence. 

I would surround myself as much as possible (mainly my clothing) by emulating that historical aspect through my junior high school days. i recall my friend Cindi (she was very modern, and the boys were quite fond of her) said to me often, "Raquel, you need a makeover. You're such a pretty girl, but you wear those old clothes so no one can see how attractive you are." 

I never cared she said that; in junior high, however, I succumbed to the peer pressure when my cousin (who was much older than me) said I needed to get with the times and going into high school, I needed a fresh new look. I surrendered. Often surrendering occurs in youth because insecure youth want to fit in; I wasn't secure enough to stave off the new school and loads of teenagers, nor did I want to be rejected. I yielded. I would teleport into Laura Ingalls's ways for decades in and out, trying to return to that feeling when a little girl but never gaining much footing. I was constantly battling my true self and what I loved and felt comfortable with for many years.

I didn't have the luxury of having a mate that supported my fondness for nostalgia, olde timey ways, antiques or history. I was ridiculed for it if you want the truth. I look back and honestly feel it was a cloaked structure of vitriol. Mistreatment can be masked for lengthy periods when physically concealed; it's the subtle behind-closed doors of continuous verbal poking. In hindsight, I justified the abuse because he wasn't outright punching me; I assumed there was no abuse. I had seen my father abuse; that was no question. However, it took on a different appearance as an adult. When I began to question such matters, I repeatedly heard I was mentally ill, crazy and needed help. My family has a history of mental illness. That truth was weaponised against me. I am very far from mad.

My apologies; this is not a victimhood post, yet I wanted to catch you up with my past life and where I came from and to make you aware I am not ashamed. The truth sets a person free, and when one remains vulnerable, there are no defences. No defences, and no one ever will possess an advantage of leverage. I live by this truth well-fixed.

I have not an ounce of animosity towards those that have been unfortunately unhealthy to me; I am Indifferent, life is, and I know the universe has a karmic vindication debt of retribution. I believe greatly in the boomerang effect. Let's end this post with the inclination that on any given day, I wouldn't fancy them an invite to tea. 

Most affably yours til my next swim, Raquelxxx