A Dream Need Not Explain Itself

My dear Mermaid Darlings, and the ladies of Stillwater,

I have been thinking about how much time we can spend explaining something we might otherwise be quietly bringing to life, especially when the people about us cannot yet see what we see, and we begin to feel that we must make them understand before we carry on.

In 2019 I remember Sawyer coming to visit whilst I was in the middle of a cottage renovation, and how readily I began explaining where everything would go and what I intended to do, as though I ought to account for the unfinished state of things before he could possibly enjoy being there.

He looked at me and said, “Mum, you don’t need to explain everything. I see what you’re doing, and it’s going to be so cool.”

I have remembered those words with such affection, partly because they were his, but also because he gave me the lovely feeling of being understood whilst everything still stood a little crooked and unfinished about me. He could see that I was making something, and he trusted me to find my way through it without requiring a defence of every decision. 

Nowadays I rarely if ever catch myself explaining and, I think of him, and now I might put that same care into the work itself instead of trying to persuade someone to believe in what I have not yet finished.

Of course, we like the people we love to understand us, and there is nothing unreasonable in wishing that someone might look at our little beginnings with affection. Yet there comes a point when explaining the same dream again leaves us weary, particularly if each conversation attempts to bring us back to the same doubts, with scarcely any time left for the thing we had hoped to accomplish that day.

I learned some time ago to let those conversations rest, and to accept that a person may care for me without sharing my imagination, just as I may care for them without asking them to approve every turn my life takes. I can listen to thoughtful advice and still return to my own work with my judgement intact, allowing what I make to introduce itself in its own time.

The people who feel at home with it have a better chance of finding me if I continue, and I should rather spend an afternoon making something lovely than rehearsing another explanation of why I wish to make it at all.

Even so, I have had to learn that giving my time to a dream does not require me to hurry through the rest of my life, although for many years I behaved as though everything pleasant waited somewhere beyond the next completed task.

Before my dear boy chap Sawyer died, I was forever trying to get things achieved and finished, imagining that I would feel settled once I had caught up, put everything in order, or worked quite hard enough to deserve an afternoon of ease. Somehow, whenever I approached that promised afternoon, I discovered another job that seemed to require my immediate attention, and the rest I had intended to take slipped politely out of reach.

People would tell me that I needed to relax and enjoy myself, and although I understood what they meant, I scarcely knew how to begin when sitting still left me feeling that I ought to be useful. I had carried from childhood the belief that I must earn my place by making myself useful, and with so little faith in my own worth, I scarely knew when I had given enough; I would offer more than I could comfortbaly spare, then search my pockets for some last little kindness, as though I still owed something for the simple priviledge of being there. 

I could sit in a chair whilst mentally working my way through the house, finding things to mend, rearrange or improve, until I had quite exhausted myself without moving very far at all.

I had become so accustomed to earning my keep each day that I struggled to imagine feeling worthy of kindness when I had little to show for my hours.

I suspect some of you will recognise that feeling, particularly if you learnt early to be helpful, undemanding, or very good at getting on with things, and carried those habits into a life where nobody quite knew how much they cost you.

In my own case, keeping busy also spared me from spending much time with feelings I did not know what to do with, because there was always a cupboard to sort or a project to begin whenever an uncomfortable thought approached. I could give my hands something to manage and postpone the quieter business of admitting that, beneath all my efforts, I felt deeply unhappy.

After losing Sawyer, I began to understand how much of my life I had hurried through whilst trying to make it satisfactory, and how easily I had postponed the ordinary pleasures that might have sustained me along the way.

I still love making things, and anyone who has seen the cottage will know that I have gathered enough projects to keep myself occupied for a considerable while, but I want to enjoy living here whilst the work continues. I want to notice a cat settling beside me, hear the ducks conducting their afternoon affairs, and admire the zinnias without immediately deciding that I ought to weed beneath them.

There is something rather lovely about drinking a cup of tea whilst it is still warm, especially when one has spent years setting it down beside a task and remembering it only after it has gone quite cold.

Perhaps this is part of what draws me towards the older rhythms I associate with Britain and parts of Europe, where I have so often admired the willingness to linger over a visit or give an ordinary pleasure its proper time. I would not presume that everyone there lives this way, any more than every American rushes about as I once did, but I feel an affection for that unhurried manner and the respect it seems to offer the day.

I have also noticed how easily we can turn slow living into another undertaking to perfect, filling our hours with all the things we believe will make life gentler until we scarcely have a moment left to enjoy the gentleness we set out to find.

I say this with affection, for I can still catch myself making a list so ambitious that the woman expected to complete it would have very little opportunity to sit in the garden she has worked so hard to create.

I do not imagine that anyone will read a few words from your dear ole razzie and suddenly know how to set aside habits she has carried for most of her life, especially when there are people and animals to care for, bills to pay, and work that truly does need doing. I only hope that sharing a little of my own experience might make it easier to recognise the moments when we ask more of ourselves than the day reasonably requires.

Perhaps there is one harmless thing we could leave until tomorrow, or a small pleasure we could enjoy without first completing something else, allowing ourselves to discover that the afternoon holds together perfectly well when we loosen our grip a little.

My Alchemy of Mermaidology subliminals belong to this same wish for a gentler and more joyful life, and if you enjoy listening, I hope they offer a quiet companion whilst you practise allowing kinder thoughts to become familiar. I speak of these things because I remember how unpleasant it felt to live beneath my own constant scrutiny, always trying harder and finding fault whenever my efforts fell short of the impossible standard I had set.

These days, I would like to give my dreams the patience I give something growing in the garden, tending them faithfully whilst allowing myself to enjoy what has already taken root.

When I think again of Sawyer standing amongst the renovation, I remember how easily he let me feel hopeful about it all, and how little he needed me to explain before he offered his encouragement. I should like to carry more of that kindness into the way I speak to myself, especially on the days when everything takes longer than I expected and the finished picture remains mine alone to see.

If you are making a life that others do not yet understand, I hope you will give yourself that kindness too, and leave a little time amongst the making for the life you are already in.

Most affably yours til 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

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