The Quiet Art of Mermaid Meditation; A Gentle Seventeen-Minute Practise

Originally published 5 August 2019; lovingly revised 22 July 2026.

My dear Mermaid Darlings and my beloved Stillwater, A Petticoat Society,

There are certain quiet practises that slip into our lives almost unnoticed; they ask so little of us in the beginning, and yet, over time, they quietly alter the course of an ordinary day, and then an ordinary life. Meditation has been one of those faithful companions for me.

I first began the practise in 2014, soon after discovering the teachings of Abraham Hicks. If I may confess something to you, I approached it with more than a little hesitation. Having come from a deeply religious background, the notion of sitting in stillness with my own thoughts seemed rather unfamiliar, and I quietly wondered whether it belonged to a world far removed from the one I had always known. My own journey has never unfolded in dramatic leaps, but through gentle, measured steps; each one arriving only when my heart was ready to receive it.

In time, curiosity quietly outstayed hesitation.

Whilst my spiritual path has continued to unfold over the years, and today I find myself most deeply at home in the beautiful writings of the mystic Neville Goddard, I remain sincerely grateful for what Abraham Hicks first taught me about the art of meditation. That simple daily practise has never left me, and I still treasure it as one of the greatest gifts I have ever given myself.

I attended Abraham Hicks gatherings over the years, and there is a stillness there that proves rather difficult to place into ordinary language. 

The nearest description I can offer is that one leaves with the curious feeling of having remembered something that was never truly lost. It feels wonderfully like coming home.

Yet I have since discovered that the very same home awaits us within ourselves.

No grand ceremony is required. Nothing extraordinary has been withheld from you. Only a few quiet moments, offered faithfully, until the clamour of the day settles like silt beneath still water, allowing what has always been there to rise gently into view.

Meditation has never been an escape from life for me. Rather, it is the quiet place where I return to remember who I am before the world begins speaking all at once.

We spend so much of our lives answering circumstances that we scarcely notice how rarely we pause long enough to hear the softer voice beneath them. Yet it waits with remarkable patience, never hurried, never demanding.

There are many schools of thought concerning meditation. Some encourage long hours, whilst others recommend only a few minutes. I have simply remained with the gentle practise Abraham first introduced to me, and after more than a decade of daily meditation, I have found it beautifully sufficient.

The question I hear most often is wonderfully familiar.

“I simply cannot stop thinking.”

My dear heart, neither could I.

The mind has spent a lifetime learning to answer every passing concern; it should not surprise us that it continues to do so when we first invite it into silence. There is no failure in wandering. There is only the gentle work of returning.

Again.

And again.

Each return is the practise.

Little by little, the thoughts soften. The body follows. Somewhere along the way, without fanfare or announcement, you discover that stillness was never something you needed to create; it had simply been waiting beneath the conversation of the mind.

It is there that I most often find guidance.

Not through dramatic revelations, but through the smallest impressions that arrive with remarkable certainty. A page to write. A garden to tend. A letter to send. A book to begin.

Occasionally something wonderfully unexpected.

I have often smiled whilst listening to Esther Hicks describe finishing a meditation only to feel entirely compelled to rearrange the furniture.

It sounds delightfully whimsical until you experience those gentle promptings for yourself, and then they seem the most natural thing in the world.

Should you care to join me, this is the little ritual pf which I have grown rather fond.

I slip into comfortable clothing and light a candle.

I quiet the cottage as best I can.

I choose the soft sound of waves, gentle rain, or a quiet dripping fountain, and allow it to become the only thing worthy of my attention.

Beside me rests my notebook, waiting patiently for whatever wishes to arrive after the silence has had its say.

Before I begin, I often anoint my wrists and neckline with a little of my "Take Joy" botanical blend. I created it especially for quiet mornings such as these, and its gentle fragrance has become a familiar companion to my meditation and daily life. Should it ever call to you, you shall find it waiting in my Etsy shop.

On other mornings I simply reach for Frankincense or Lavender, and occasionally whichever crystal seems determined to accompany me that day. I have long since stopped asking why one feels right, and another does not.

Then I set my timer for seventeen minutes and no longer.

There is something beautifully complete about that little measure of time.

As the sound begins, I breathe in slowly for three counts, and out for five. Whenever my thoughts wander, as they surely still do from time to time, I simply escort them back to the rhythm of the waves. There is no scolding, only another gentle invitation.

Eventually the body grows lighter, time becomes wonderfully uncertain and the edges of the day soften.

When the timer sounds, I do not rush away; rather, I linger.

The first quiet impressions that arrive are often the ones I trust most.

They rarely shout, and they scarcely need to.

I have come to believe that wisdom has always preferred a whisper.

If you have never tried meditation before, I hope you will not concern yourself with doing it perfectly. Simply begin. Offer yourself seventeen quiet minutes each day, return kindly whenever your thoughts wander, and trust that stillness has been waiting for you all along. Before very long, you may find that those seventeen minutes become the most treasured moments of your day.

I shall be quietly delighted if they do.

Most affably yours, until my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel

Benevolent Neglect; The Surprising Secret to Personal Growth, Manifestation, and Trusting the Process

My dear Mermaid Darlings of Stillwater Petticoat Society,

If you have ever found yourself worrying over a dream, checking constantly for signs of progress, or wondering whether your efforts have amounted to anything at all, then I suspect this little tale may be for you.

I was standing beneath the awning at Scarlette Rose Cottage some time ago, doing nothing particularly remarkable, merely tidying a planter and pulling away a few tired leaves, when I found myself laughing over a small discovery.

You see, there is a pot of ivy tucked away there that receives very little attention from me. I do not hover over it; I do not inspect every leaf; nor do I spend my afternoons wondering whether it is content with its circumstances. I offer water when needed, remove the occasional brown leaf, and then leave it to its own affairs.

And it thrives, not merely survives; thrives.

Meanwhile, there have been other plants to which I have devoted far more attention. I have shifted them from one place to another; worried over every blemish; adjusted their surroundings; examined their leaves; pondered their future; and, if I am entirely honest, nearly loved them to death.

The ivy beneath the awning simply grows.

The observation followed me indoors and settled beside me for the remainder of the day, for I realised that this little pot of ivy had quietly taught me something about personal growth, manifestation, slow living, and the curious art of trusting the process.

The phrase that came to mind was one I had not heard in years: benevolent neglect.

The words lingered with me long after I had set down my gardening gloves.

For much of my life, I believed that devotion required constant attention. If something mattered deeply, surely one must think about it continually. One must worry over it; labour over it; and must keep a vigilant eye upon it lest it somehow slip away unnoticed.

There is something rather curious about our inclination to interfere with the very things we most dearly hope will flourish. We plant a seed and almost immediately wish to uncover it, merely to reassure ourselves that it has remembered how to grow. Yet nature has never been persuaded by impatience.

The gardener prepares the earth with care; she plants faithfully; she waters when the season requires it; and then, with remarkable good sense, she leaves the matter in gentler hands than her own. The baker places the loaf within the oven and trusts the warmth to perform its quiet office. Even the tide, faithful as an old friend, slips away from the shore only to return without invitation, without coaxing, and without ever consulting our anxious hearts.

Very little in this world responds kindly to being tugged at every few moments.

I have begun to wonder whether what appears to be neglect is sometimes nothing more than trust wearing gardening clothes; a calm willingness to provide what is needed, and then to resist the peculiar temptation of constant interference. It is not indifference at all, but affection tempered by wisdom.

As I stood beneath the little awning and watched the ivy making its patient ascent, I found myself thinking of the many quiet hopes that have accompanied me through the years; this little cottage with its stone walls and lace curtains; the books that continue to gather themselves one page at a time; the paintings waiting patiently upon the easel; the gatherings I dream of hosting for kindly women who long for beauty and gentleness; and all the unseen seeds that have found their place within the soil of ordinary days.

We are so often persuaded that every dream requires continual inspection, when perhaps many possess the sturdy constitution of ivy rather than the delicate disposition of an orchid. They ask for roots; a little nourishment; honest light; and the grace of being left undisturbed whilst they attend to their own becoming.

It seems to me that every worthwhile thing observes its own season. There is a time when our sleeves ought to be rolled high, and our hands made gloriously untidy with honest work; yet there is another, no less important, when wisdom quietly folds those same hands together and waits without complaint. The difficulty, I suspect, lies not in labouring faithfully, but in recognising when labour has finished its part.

The most important work is so often hidden from view. Roots deepen where no audience gathers. Branches strengthen long before they offer shade. Beneath the surface, where applause never wanders, life goes steadily about its business, asking neither permission nor praise.

The world, of course, delights in urgency. It urges us to strive more loudly, hurry more quickly, and measure our progress against every passing soul who happens to cross our path.

Nature offers no such counsel. The oak keeps no account of its rings; the rose does not concern herself with tomorrow’s bloom whilst opening today’s; and the ivy, dear steadfast thing that it is, simply continues upward with quiet determination, asking nothing of anyone except a wall willing to receive her.

Perhaps that is why I found such unexpected comfort beneath that humble awning.

The ivy was not attempting to impress me. It was not glancing toward the neighbouring flowers to see whether they had climbed farther. It was not fretting over yesterday nor borrowing tomorrow’s concerns. It simply accepted the day’s small work, fastening one tender leaf after another, trusting that enough small faithfulness would one day become abundance.

There is a lesson tucked quietly inside such ordinary things, though nature seldom raises her voice to deliver it. She merely continues her patient demonstrations until, one ordinary afternoon, we are finally still enough to notice.

Perhaps our task is not always to accomplish more, but to tend what has been entrusted to us with faithful hands; then step back with equal grace and allow the unseen work to unfold in its appointed season. There is a curious peace in such an arrangement; almost a covenant between ourselves and the dreams we have planted. We shall do our part with glad hearts, and leave the growing to life itself.

If we listen very closely, I rather believe the ivy has been whispering the same counsel all along. Grow steadily; reach gently; trust the season before you; and let tomorrow concern itself with tomorrow, for today’s quiet faithfulness is already enough.

Most affably yours ’til my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel

When the Striving Grows Quiet

My dear Mermaid Darlings and cherished friends of Stillwater Petticoat Society,

This morning arrived with a curious sort of clarity; not the loud kind that announces itself from a rooftop, but the gentle sort that slips through an open window whilst the kettle hums and the world has not yet quite awakened.

I have spent much of my life believing that if I loved a little harder, worked a little longer, gave a little more of myself, then perhaps I would finally feel seen. Many of us who grew up feeling overlooked learn this lesson early; we become caretakers, peacemakers, and steady hands for everyone around us, often without realising that we have quietly abandoned ourselves in the process.

Yet there comes a season when one begins to understand that whatever we most long to receive from others must first be supplied from within.

If we desire appreciation, we must learn to appreciate ourselves. If we desire kindness, we must extend it inward. If we wish for someone to fill our cup, we must first discover the spring that already rests beneath our own feet.

The difficulty lies in accepting that no person can wholly provide what the soul requires. They may add sweetness to our tea; they may walk beside us for a little while; they may offer encouragement when the road grows steep. Yet the deeper work belongs to us alone.

I believe that is why so many of us find ourselves arriving at a peculiar crossroads, one where striving begins to lose its charm and peace becomes far more attractive than pursuit.

Perhaps that is not surrender at all, perhaps it is wisdom. 

For those of you listening faithfully to my subliminals, you may have noticed something rather curious. Occasionally, a recording that once brought comfort suddenly feels irritating, and you find yourself wanting to switch it off altogether. Many people become concerned when this happens, though I have found it to be a familiar part of the voyage.

The subconscious mind rarely welcomes change with open arms. It prefers the old pathways, even when they no longer serve us. When a new belief begins to take root, the mind often pushes back. A little resistance is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong; often, it is evidence that something is shifting.

Persist gently, my dear.

Not with force, nor frustration, but with the quiet certainty that a gardener brings to her seeds. She does not dig them up each morning to see whether they have grown; she simply tends them and trusts the process.

If you have not yet collected the free subliminals, you are welcome to email (Raquel@RaquelCarter.com) me, and I shall happily send them along. I continue to share new videos on YouTube throughout the week, along with regular live gatherings for those walking this path beside me.

Here at Scarlette Rose Cottage, life has found its rhythm once more.

The shelves now stand in place, and after nearly two years of boxes, wrappings, and little piles waiting their turn, I can finally see the shape of home emerging again. A few projects still wait patiently in the wings. I hope to finish the fireplace board very soon, perhaps this week if energy allows, though next week seems equally content to receive it.

Most days, I retreat to the cottage and lose myself amongst stories.

Two new children’s books sit open upon my desk, waiting for their next chapters, and I confess I am quite impatient to begin the illustrations. There is something magical about reaching that stage, when words begin to ask for colour.

Sweet little Buckaroo has also returned home from the taxidermist. I shall be creating a glass case for him and hope to fashion something reminiscent of the cover of The Tale of the Christmas Bunnies. It will require a rather grand shelf when finished, though I suspect he would approve of such arrangements.

There are many adventures ahead; quiet ones, creative ones, and perhaps a few unexpected ones as well.

If you should like to keep company with me between letters, I share glimpses of daily cottage life on Instagram stories each day. It remains the one place where I gather most regularly, and I should be delighted to see you there.

As for me, the dough is waiting upon the kitchen counter, and a week’s worth of bread will not make itself. The afternoon sun has begun to shift across the windows, and that seems as good a signal as any to tie on an apron and carry on.

Until next time, my dear friends, may your cup be filled from within, your heart remain light, and your days unfold with a little more peace than striving.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim, Lady Raquel

A Letter on Quiet Lives and Loud Expectations

Dear mermaid darlings and the lovely Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I have been noticing something of late, and I wonder if you have felt it too.

At times, as I wander through these so-called slow living and old-fashioned spaces — the linen aprons, the sourdough loaves, the rows of industrious little hands — my chest tightens rather than softens. Instead of calm, I feel a faint unease, like a breeze that carries the memory of a storm long past.

These women are always doing.  

Cooking from scratch, teaching their children, tending homes and gardens, building dream houses plank by plank, posting daily, filming constantly, offering themselves endlessly. There is scarcely a moment when the hands are not busy, the mind not occupied, the body not required.

They call it devotion.  

They call it purpose.  

They call it a beautiful life.

Yet what I see — and what my body remembers — is something altogether different.

I see exhaustion worn like a badge of honour.  

Dark circles framed as virtue.  

Rest postponed, justified, or quietly denied.  

A life where stillness must be earned, and silence feels suspicious.

I know this life.  

I lived it once.

And it nearly cost me everything.

When I was younger, I carried a home, children, responsibility, faith, and expectation upon my back without pause or mercy. There was always one more thing to do, one more soul to tend, one more measure of goodness to prove. I did not know how to stop — nor was I ever given permission to do so.

The world praised my strength while my spirit quietly disappeared.

So now, when I see these images — no matter how charming the crockery or golden the light — my nervous system stirs. It is not judgment. It is recognition. The body does not forget what survival felt like.

What troubles me most is not the work itself, but how exhaustion is sanctified. How suffering is reframed as calling. How a woman’s worth becomes entangled with her usefulness, her output, her endurance.

This is not slowness.  

This is labour dressed in lace.

Authentic slow living — the kind that heals rather than hollows — leaves room for margins, for unseen days, for afternoons that accomplish nothing at all. It allows creativity to arise from rest, not pressure. It honours the woman herself, not just the life she produces.

These days, I choose a quieter rhythm. A gentler authority. A life that does not require constant evidence of its value. I no longer confuse depletion with devotion, nor busyness with meaning.

And if you feel that same tightening — that subtle tremor in your chest when you scroll — please know this: there is nothing wrong with you.

Your body may simply be remembering a life it survived.  

And it may be lovingly reminding you that you are no longer required to live there.

We are allowed to build beautiful lives without breaking ourselves upon them.

A Small Blessing for the Woman Who Is Learning to Rest

May you never again mistake exhaustion for holiness,  nor believe that a life must be heavy to be worthy.

May your days contain pauses that require no explanation, and rest that arrives without guilt or apology.

May your hands learn that they are allowed to be still, and your heart remember that it is not measured by what it produces.

May you choose beauty that soothes rather than strains, and rhythms that leave room for breath, wonder, and quiet joy.

And when the world grows loud with its expectations, may you feel no obligation to answer.

You are already enough.  

The tide does not hurry, and neither must you.

With affection,  

R.

From the Stillwater Days

—reflections for women who are no longer willing to prove their worth through exhaustion.