On Building an English Cottage Slowly

My dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There are chapters in a woman’s life which are not begun with a vision of beauty, but rather with a quiet and most necessary longing for shelter, and it was in such a season that Scarlette Rose Cottage first received me—not as a triumph, nor as a finished place of charm, but as a small and faithful refuge into which I might gather myself when the world had grown too grievous to carry, for it was here, in the shadow of my boy Sawyer’s passing, that I found my hands seeking occupation in the gentlest of ways, as though instinct itself understood that where the heart is broken, it must be given something tender to tend.

I did not arrive with abundance, nor with any grand design fully formed, but with a modest allowance of means, a few coins earned here and there, and a willingness—quiet yet unwavering—to make something from what others had relinquished, and so I wandered, as one does, through humble charity shops where forgotten things rest in patient rows, selecting not what was finest, but what seemed willing to belong, a teacup with a softened rim, a chair that had known better rooms, a linen faintly worn yet still holding its grace, each object taken up not for its perfection, but for its readiness to be loved again.

In those days, I kept myself occupied with small labours, not from any pressing ambition, but because there is a peculiar kindness in the doing of simple tasks, and so I painted where I could, arranged what I had gathered, and accepted with gratitude the occasional offering Jeffrey would bring—a tin of paint, a practical provision—never grand gestures, but sufficient to continue the quiet unfolding, and though the cottage itself was no more than four hundred square feet, it asked of me a certain discernment, teaching, in its gentle constraint, that not all things may remain, and that a life, much like a room, becomes most peaceful when only what is meaningful is permitted to stay.

Even now, my darlings, it would not present itself as a finished picture to the casual eye, for there remain corners yet to be completed and plans that live more vividly within my imagination than upon the walls, yet there is a difference now, subtle though it may be, for where once there was only survival, there is at present a quiet and steady joy, not hurried, nor insistent, but returning of its own accord, as though it had merely stepped out for a time and found its way home again.

I have come, in this way, to understand something which I had not known at the beginning—that one does not commence with beauty, nor does one require it in order to begin, but rather with a certain devotion, a willingness to continue, to choose, to place one small thing rightly, and then another, until, almost without announcement, beauty consents to appear, not as something pursued, but as something that has been gently invited.

And so I remain here, not merely arranging a cottage, but composing a life that feels, in its quiet way, like a fairytale—less for its appearance than for its intention—and I hold, with a calm and settled certainty, that what has been so carefully imagined within these walls shall, in due time and without strain, reveal itself outwardly in a manner most becoming.

There is, I find, something rather difficult to convey in words alone when it comes to the laying of stone, for it is not merely the placing, but the rhythm of it—the choosing, the turning, the quiet adjustment of each piece until it settles as though it had always intended to be there—and so, rather than attempt to explain it too plainly, I have left a moving picture of the work as it unfolded, should you care to step into it for a little while.

(For those who have, in some small way, felt a fondness for what is being made here, and who have expressed a wish to contribute to The Carter Settlement, I have left a quiet place to do so below.)

“Support the Carter Settlement”
(Link to PayPal)

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

Restoration Rarely Looks Romantic in the Middle

My Dearest Mermaid Darlings, and you gentle souls of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There is something I must confess to you, and I shall do so without powdering it in sugar; restoration rarely looks romantic in the middle.

Indeed, if one were to wander past Scarlette Rose Cottage at present, one might not at first behold a storybook dwelling, but rather a house in conversation with itself — patches of primed wood where old slats once rested, flagstone climbing slowly round her skirts, tools stacked with intention after long months of interruption, and a certain dear knee of mine reminding me that even enchantresses must sometimes sit down.

And yet — oh, how I love her so.

For this is the honest part. The unbeautified, half-done, entirely human part.

I have chosen for her trim and doors a storybook green — a proper Victorian green, not the garish gloss of modern haste, but a softened satin sheen that catches the light like moss after rain. Not too shiny, lest she appear newly manufactured; not too flat, lest she fade into chalk and sorrow under Florida’s humid sun. Satin for the trim, my dears — for durability, for gentle definition — and eggshell for the body when her time comes. The Victorians understood such subtleties. Sheen is a character. Light is language.

One cannot simply fling paint upon a house and call it heritage.

Each finish is chosen with purpose, every decision tempered by discipline, and every stone set deliberately, laid in measured portions according to what my own means permit.

Yes, I am restoring her into a flagstone cottage — fully wrapped, entirely grounded — and one day, God willing and wind permitting, she shall wear a thatched crown and be surrounded by a garden so abundant that roses will conspire with lavender and bees shall think it Eden. But I am doing it slowly. With my own hands. With my own money. With my own creative will.

And that matters to me.

Not because a woman may not build her dreams in one grand swoop — many do, and I applaud them — but because there is a peculiar dignity in building brick by brick, stone by stone, payment by payment. There is a sovereignty in saying, “I shall fund this vision myself, and it shall rise according to my rhythm.”

Too many in this modern age crave instant arrival. Instant beauty. Instant completion. We are taught to leap from before to after without honouring the middle. Yet it is the middle that strengthens the bones of a thing.

Anything assembled too quickly often wears its haste like cheap varnish.

Beauty that endures is almost always patient.

I had a moment, I admit, when exposed red wood beneath removed slats offended my eye so grievously that I nearly declared the entire cottage must be painted brown at once to hide the indignity. But restraint prevailed—a little primer, a little blending, a steady breath, and calm returned.

We do not repaint the whole house because of a temporary patch.

How often in life do we do just that?

My loves, we are learning not only to restore cottages, but to restore ourselves.

We are learning that something of value — something weighty enough to withstand weather and time — must be built with steadiness. The world rushes. The world scrolls, and the world demands reveal after reveal. Yet I believe our souls crave something else entirely.

We long for substance, we honour skilled hands, and we cherish the gradual unfolding of something made with care.

Scarlette Rose Cottage does not need to be finished in a fortnight to be worthy. She is already becoming, and so are we.

So if you find yourself in the middle — of a dream, of a renovation, of a healing, of a becoming — do not despise the scaffolding. Do not curse the exposed boards. Do not repaint your entire life in haste because one corner looks unfinished.

Prime what requires tending, set your tools in quiet order, select your finish with discernment, and proceed with steady faith, for what is raised with patience is the very thing that endures.

And I should far rather dwell in something enduring than something instant.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, LR

Niggles

Good day, my dear darling mermaid hearts, 

I am so happy to be back to writing to you once again. My heart feels so light and so delighted.

 

"I cannot rest; I must draw, however poor the result, and when I have a bad time come over me, it is a stronger desire than ever and settles on the queerest things." -Beatrix Potter.

Jeffrey Shawn and I have done a tiny bit of gardening. Last evening, as we were watering the corn, we noticed the beautiful golden corn shooting its magical silk, and what a wonder. It is so rewarding growing a lovely garden of flowers and food. 

I have been repainting the cottage walls a pretty green (which I call a little English sweet pea), which reminds me of England and the lovely, quaint, cosy cottages in the countryside. I have it halfway completed. It has been quite busy here, as I have also been working on completing Mum and Dad's little guest room. I built some faux beams; however, those still need to be installed. 

However, I did finish the faux wood technique on all of the trim work, baseboards and crown moulding. I found this pretty light from the Facebook marketplace for $25. It looks as if the original owners turned it into a plug light by adding a lamp kit. However, I disembowelled the entire lamp and removed the kit. It may not look like much, but it is rather stunning and Victorian in its glory. I can't wait to place her in Scarlette Rose Cottage, as it will suit very well. 

I spent last week removing several pieces of furniture from the cottage; therefore, I don't feel so squeezed tightly like Scarlette Rose in the hole of a cypress tree. It was a much-needed pursuit as there was a little bit of a niggle where I thought I needed to release negative energy. I meditated and then sat and painted more on The Tale of the Christmas Bunnies. I have focused on keeping things in my life relatively simple and calming. I am devoted to a simple old way of slow living, and I've made it a purposeful pursuit.

Have a lovely evening. I will chat with you tomorrow. Toodle-Pip!

Most affably yours til my next swim, Razz

 

A Cottage In The Woods At The End Of A Path

"Home is the nicest word there is."~Laura Ingalls Wilder 

My World Of Imagination With Tasha Tudor And Our Victorian Oak 19th Century Icebox

"I've always lived in a world of imagination. Maybe it's because I'm a coward and hide my head in the sand and don't want to see the real world. I don't know. But I can assure you it's a very delightful way to live."—Tasha Tudor

February's Fair Maids

Good morning dear friends,

Rabbit Rabbit! February, my birth month and the month of love.

I had such a lovely day yesterday. My (soon to be) sister in law came to visit Scarlette Rose Cottage. It was my first visit; we had an entire pot of earl grey tea and filled our gills with biscuits. It's so lovely to have friends. I especially love and relate to Annie because she's a Pisces like me. I'm among mermaidens, my landlocked kind. Smile. I'm sure you understand I am invariably thinking about incorporating mermaids into my brand at every turn. Have I never actually told you outright why I named the little cottage Scarlette Rose? Sometimes I'm not sure what I write, as I'm always yapping at the jaw about something or nother and can't remember from one moment to the next what I've written and what I thought I wrote. Ya, know, because I self talk all day and think I've had conversations with folks when in fact, no, it was all in my waterlogged head. This landlocked life is a new sensation—wink wink. The point is, (mercy lawd, get to it dear sweet Raquel) Scarlette Rose is what I named the little storage building at my folks. I've been slowly turning it into an 1850's Victorian cottage after the mermaid character in my storybook, The Tale of Merrymaid Scarlette Rose. If you recall, when Jeffrey Shawn and i moved in temporarily with my folks, Sawyer had just died. In a bid to help me heal and have something to keep me distracted, my dad allowed me to create something lovely from his storage building. He called it his Elvis room and It hadn't been used in years.

I jotted down several storybook ideas into my diary about adoption.  

Yesterday, I was thinking about what to write about because I have so many blog titles in my draft folder, but sometimes I write an entire post and then don't feel like posting any of them when it comes down to it. Then I thought, well, I'm just going to keep this blog as random as can be. It's just how my noggin works, and it's kept me alive all this time, so why change it. So one day, I'll write about how my grandmother's cornbread got the name "dog bread", which will be in the back of Sawyers book The Tale of Sawyer Lamb and the next day I might talk about mindset work. I have no idea what I'm going to post from day to day. I don't like to plan because I think I should be myself, and that means I want my blog to make as little sense as humanly possible. Hehe... I don't get out much, can you tell?

I think I've realised I must be myself. Will I still use flowery, lovely words, yes? Will I then switch it up dramatically? Also yes. I love where my life is today. I will never stop speaking with a British accent, but I'm also southern to the core, so I just might as well accept it. I figured out one-day last week that if I just keep writing and writing eventually, something will catch on. I'm an optimistic fool that way.

Last night I tried to give The Gilded Age another go, and no, just no. The shame of it all. I have no words. Well, actually, I have a lot of words for it, but let's leave it for another day because I'm still reeling.

I heard The New York Times title it "Dime Store Downton", and I agree. But, let's move on before I cry.

I didn't sketch yesterday because I have been stuck on a particular page and how I wanted it to look, so I tend to swim away until I can come back to it and see the vision with clear eyes. It's been a little distressing because I am on a short deadline. I've done it to myself. I want to hit the mark but not at the cost of making my work rubbish. Pray for me.

Today I'm going to meet a sweet new friend at the pub. She recently moved to my hometown, and I'm very excited. I think shell love being a part of Stillwater, The Petticoat Philosophy. Oh, how exciting; let's see if I can keep from screwing this friendship up. Hehe... no, but seriously I know I've found new beliefs about friendship, so I think we will be forever friends. The End.

I love you, and I'll see you tomorrow.

Most affably yours til my next swim, Raquelxxx

The Art Of Distraction

When in times of uncertainty it might appear to some that I am a wee bit silly to write about such things such as what I’ve been doing to improve the cottage for the foundation {The Carter Settlement}, what books I’m reading or how I’m finding joy while being at home. However, the power of focus is, well, ‘a powerful thing.’

The Art Of Naming Our Mermaid-Esque, Victorian {The Scarlette Rose Cottage}

A few days back, I posted about how Jeffrey and I are converting a one-room little vacancy on my folk's property into a little itty bitty cottage for The Carter Settlement. Its the beginning of my dream coming to fruition in the having of a real non-profit foundation. I'm not entirely sure what will transpire when we find our forever property; however, I'm living in the now and enjoying this process extensively.