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
