The Art of Living Lovely

My Dear Mermaid Darlings,

Might you pour a cup of tea and let us have a little prattle? I am having Fortnum and Mason with some homemade chocolate chip cookies I cobbled together last evening. 

In the past several weeks, I confess I had not the faintest notion where my dear little society—The Petticoat Society—would carry me upon the breeze of YouTube. And yet, like a ship led gently by the stars, I have found myself docked amongst the kindest, most encouraging, and delightfully spirited souls I have ever had the joy of meeting.

The darling lasses (and a few chaps, too!) from all corners of our big blue marble have embraced me with warmth and welcome, like old friends reuniting after lifetimes apart. It has been a balm most sweet for a lady once bruised by rejection, particularly from religious women whose hearts misunderstood the spiritual gifts bestowed upon me. Gone are the days of shame and shunning, and in their stead, a bevvy of radiant, open-hearted women who not only celebrate my mediumship channelled gifts and visions but gladly support me, both in spirit and in sovereign coin.

Yes, I daresay it boldly—I manifested this community. I spoke it into existence with the certainty of the sunrise and the knowing of a woman in her power. And lo, here it stands; beautiful, abundant, and brimming with affection.

I write this now with cheeks pinked by joy, for our very first sold-out social gathering of The Petticoat Society shall commence this May 10th at the beloved Chinsegut Hill, and oh, what a jolly fine time we shall have! My fine bone china—specially posted from England, no less—is polished spit-spot and ready for service, all arranged Bristol fashion.

At the weekend, I shall prepare the tea party menu with utmost care—delicate sandwiches, fluffy scones, and charming confections, each to accompany the enchanting little story I penned, "The Tale of MerryMaid Scarlette Rose." Though written for children, it carries spiritual truths and fairytale wisdom that grown ladies, too, may delight in. My dear, for what is childhood but the doorway to accurate remembrance?

At our first lil' social gathering, each attending lady shall receive a dainty hand-bound handmade diary and a quill pen (for one must always write one's revelations in beauty), and we shall enjoy a spiritual circle together—a moment of gentle inner reflection and soul connection.

Afterwards, we shall pour tea, the kettle whistling its merry tune, followed by a homespun craft (A Garden-Fresh Keepsake in Bloom) and then, to top it off, each lady will take home what was taken at the start of the gathering a Victorian tintype photograph upon the very steps of the grand Manor House—affectionately named Hilltop, as once coined by the dear British actress and suffragette, and likened protagonist in my British romantic novel Deceit and Dissension Miss Elizabeth Robins.

What a name, indeed, for it calls to mind Beatrix Potter's own Hilltop in the Lake District. Am I not, in some small fashion, the living echo of such women? An artist, authoress, and cottage-dweller with a bonnet full of dreams?

My beloved husband recently took my hand and said with a twinkle in his eye (not in truth, he said it whilst we had pillow talk; however, the writer in me can't manage to muster up the drab and boring to the olympic degree turn of phrase but rather i must shower my entries with a flourish and imaginative gesture. Bear with it, dear heart.) 

"Darling, you are financially independent, crafting and painting all day, writing beautiful tales, and playing house as a grown woman—what a dream you are living. It delights me beyond measure to see you so joyful, and I'm in awe of your power to bring every vision to life."

(He, in truth, did say these things; however, darlings, not to the exacting in words. My husband is a farmer and a down-home southerner who did not utter "it delights me beyond measure." Don't be daft!

How he indeed said it is not fit for the interweb in all of its politeness, and my grace shall not be challenged. (Smile) My dear, he is a bit rough around the edges, and that is, in all honesty, what i admire about him, so!)

Let us leave it to defer. 

Reader, I nearly blushed myself into the wallpaper.

For what he said is true—I am living my fairytale. And if I, a once-broken woman told she was "too much," "too strange," or "too dreamy," can manifest this life, then so can you. Let this be a candle in your window, dear heart; your dreams are not silly. Your joy is sacred. Your intuition is wise, and your creativity is your compass.

Therefore, pen thy tales, pour thy tea, paint thy dreams in full colour. The world is waiting for your magic.

This very week, I happened upon the sweetest little treasure—a dear rat or wiglet, as the Victorians so affectionately named it—a clever little hairpiece to lend one's coiffure a touch of splendid fullness.' Twas most inexpensive, yet it has brought me joy beyond measure, for with nought but a few graceful twists and pins, I now adorn my tresses in less than five minutes, and oh my stars, I am tickled conch-shell pink with delight.

Clad in my old-fashioned Victorian gown, with my straw bonnet perched just so and my seashell hat pin glinting like a wink from Neptune himself, I dare say I look as though I've stepped straight out of a lantern-lit period drama or some fanciful moving picture set in a bygone age.

The compliments I've received have been as plentiful as pearls in an oyster bed, and oh, how gracious and heartwarming they've been. There's something so enchantingly simple about reviving these little touches of the past—something that makes one's heart flutter like the hem of a petticoat in the breeze.

To live like this, in quiet beauty and quaint tradition, is not merely to dress the part but to embody the spirit of elegance, whimsy, and wonder. I do believe the sea and stars conspired to lead me to that dear little wiglet, and I am ever so glad they did.

Most affably yours til my next swim, Lady R

A Reflection on Integrity, Community, and the Quiet Strength of Truth

"In a world where imitation may flourish, truth alone roots itself deep, and in time, all gardens reveal their true gardeners."~Raquel M Carter

My Dear Mermaid Darlings,

I step forward now, to call into focus even though it may not enhance my popularity; not with anger but with the bright and unshakable torch of truth in my hand.

I have borne many burdens willingly, and although 'willingly' doesn't mean they haven't weighed heavily.

 
To speak plainly, even when it unsettles the comfortable illusions of others, is not an act of malice — it is an act of love toward oneself and a duty to the sacred laws of integrity.

For too long, I cloaked my knowing in silence, hoping goodwill alone could mend what only truth could cleanse.

But the soul, like a noble garden, cannot thrive beneath the shadows of falsehood.
Thus, I choose now to stand fully in the sunlight, name what has been, and honour the path my heart has walked — with courage, kindness, and the deep and specific knowledge that truth, though sometimes unsettling, is always a healer.

In the fullness of time, it is not silence that protects the spirit but the brave and graceful speaking of one’s own bright, unalterable story.
There is a peculiar beauty that lies in the heart of small towns — a tapestry woven of familiarity, legacy, and the earnest dreams of its folk.

In these past years, I have always hoped to offer my heart’s devotion to preserving our beloved Chinsegut Hill and flowering cultural life within our village of Brooksville, Florida.

I came not as a critic nor a seeker of laurels but as a humble daughter of heritage — a Weeki Wachee Springs Mermaid, an artist, an illustrator, and above all, a believer in the gentle might of history to heal and inspire.
Yet, alas, fair hopes are not always met with fair reception.

Again and again, my attempts to volunteer, lend my artistry and spirit, and offer even the treasures of my private networks for the prosperity of our community were quietly turned aside without cause or courtesy.
My Phone calls vanished into silence. They cast aside the proposals I had woven with care and vision, only to gather them up later and present them as works not born of my hand.

Offers to contribute — not for personal profit but out of sheer love for Chinsegut Hill — were left unanswered or, worse, overlooked with the barest civility.

And now, with the clarity that faithful perseverance bestows, the pattern stands revealed: the lifting of ideas, the echoing of words once penned from my own hand, and the curious stirring of shadows about my name, where goodwill ought to have bloomed.

It is with a spirit of candour — and not of bitterness — that I must observe:
One Natalie Kahler has, most peculiarly, found herself a frequent heir of such ideas — not through her own sowing but through careful gleaning of the labours of others.

Posts once imagined in the quiet of my study, proposals once whispered in earnest to sleeping walls, now find life in unfamiliar hands.

Even among the hedgerows of our dear village, whispers speak of seeds sown — not of gardens of goodwill, but of suspicion and exclusion when another’s light unsettles the shadows in others.
It grieves me to speak thus, yet speak I must.
For there comes a time when the quiet and earnest heart must make itself heard with dignity and light.

I bear no bitterness toward those who, in their own unseen struggles, find it easier to borrow than to build.

Indeed, I wish Mrs Kahler — and all who have feared my presence — a future filled with the joy of their own honest labours. However, let it be known here, as surely as the sun rises:

I see with clarity. I stand in my own truth. I walk forward with an unshaken spirit.

And when one walks in truth, one does not tremble at the mutterings of passing shadows.
Chinsegut Hill does not call for keepers of ambition; she calls for a soul to love her back to life.

She does not need mere administrators but stewards of heart and hearth.

And with or without the welcome of those who fear the bright flame of devotion, I shall continue to carry the lamp of artistry, vision, and genuine proper care, for the sake of a heritage too sacred to leave in impetuous hands.
There are those who will read these words and feel the subtle outline of things that have been politely left unspoken.

To them, I say only this: “Truth wears no disguise. Those who love, build, and serve sincerely will reveal themselves in the fullness of time.”

A peculiar sorrow dances on the heart's edge when one feels quietly set apart, as if unseen hands had drawn invisible walls.

For many years, I chose to set aside such murmurs within myself, instead cloaking others in goodwill and believing in the better angels of human nature.

Yet now, by whispers carried from those who have seen the inner workings firsthand, it is confirmed: My soul's currents sensed what the eye alone could not behold; my spirit was not mistaken. However, upon viewing blog posts and listening to dear friends speak, the whispering and words in podcasts began to have the smell of graverobbing about them.

Ah, but such is the way of truth — it moves like the hidden tide beneath the placid sea, unseen but ever certain. In time, truth itself reaches into the depths and carries all hidden things to the waiting shore.

Life holds its own tender reckonings to those who sow in secret for selfish harvests, to those who craft shadows for their own aggrandisement.
Karma is not swift, but it is sure, weaving with a patient hand the reflection each heart has earned.

Thus, I bear no bitterness — only a more profound reverence for the unseen laws that govern our steps.

I know with the certainty of the stars that what is sown in love will bloom eternal, and what is sown in fear shall crumble in its season.

I shall go on sowing light, tending beauty, and walking the quiet, steady path of truth.

For in the end, the seas always return what was lost, and every true heart finds its shining shore.

Most affably yours til my next swim, R

On Preservation, Perception, and the Power of Assumption: A Most Hopeful Reflection on Section 106 and the Times We Are In

My dear Mermaid Darlings,

Let us settle in with a warm cuppa tea, for this may be one of those conversations that deserve a quiet heart and an open mind. I speak today not in haste but in that still, steady voice that arises when one has seen too much to be shaken and yet loves too much to remain silent.

As of late, there has been much chatter and some alarm surrounding the shifting tides in historic preservation, particularly in the wake of the DOGE initiative and its reach into departments that many of us hold dear. Among these, Section 106, that gentle but mighty guardian of our architectural memory, has been whispered about in worried tones and outright outrage.

But I invite you not into outrage, dear reader—I invite you into clarity, courage, and perhaps a bit of enchantment. For all things that seem to be falling may, in truth, be finding their place.

Let us walk together into this conversation—not with fear, but with a flame of reverence and resolve and with the unshakable knowledge that history is not only what has passed but what we choose to preserve.

In an age where so much is spoken of division and depletion, it is, I believe, a most elegant rebellion to stand in unwavering hopefulness—to perceive all things through the golden lens of possibility rather than despair. And so it is with the recent rumblings surrounding federal shifts and adjustments supporting specific cultural programmes, including institutions long devoted to curating our nation’s more difficult histories.

Some may interpret such developments as endings—closures, erasures, or acts of disregard. Yet, I would gently propose another lens entirely—one less concerned with what is seemingly removed and more enchanted by what is now being readied, for those whose vision, devotion, and timing are most aligned.

As a woman devoted to the preservation and resurrection of Chinsegut Hill, I have long trained my gaze not upon what is presently visible but upon the shape of what is forming. I hold a vantage not rooted in current appearances but in an elevated understanding—that all things are always working toward the realisation of one’s deeper call.

Thus, I do not interpret these changes as acts of diminishment but rather as divine rearrangements—a refinement of stewardship. Where once there were entitlements and committees, there shall now be custodians with soul, with a heart-born reverence for heritage and story.

Indeed, it is my thoughtful observation that President Trump, far from scorning history, has often spoken with unmistakable admiration for architectural splendour, classic craftsmanship, and the protection of American beauty. In various addresses, he has expressed fondness for grand historical spaces and their refinement. What some may view as dissolution, I view as delegation—a quiet transfer of care from impersonal institutions to individuals of conviction.

And so, I do not see cuts—I see clarity. I see the path cleared for those who are prepared to step forward with honour, vision, and respect for legacy. I see Chinsegut Hill is not neglected but is awaiting her rightful steward. And in my inward life, I already walk her halls.

Section 106, the noble provision of the National Historic Preservation Act, remains a guiding light—a safeguard that ensures that historic treasures are deeply considered and thoughtfully evaluated before being touched. And I, for one, am not only willing but wholly prepared to honour it—not from compulsion, but from a personal pledge to the past and those who shaped it.

If grants no longer cradle the old houses, then we must cradle them—those of us who speak gently to walls, mend shutters like prayer and understand that ivy has a memory. We, who light candles in the windows of history, so others may find their way back to meaning.

I believe this moment in time, however controversial, is an invitation to reimagine—to build businesses, buildings, and restore our intimacy with place, heritage, and reverence.

And amidst this unfolding conversation, a new decree has fluttered forth from the highest office in the land—a call not of destruction but of design.

Donald Trump’s latest executive order is shaking up the architectural landscape in a rather remarkable fashion. With a bold and unapologetic nod to tradition, he has revived his prior vision for “Beautiful Federal Civic Architecture,” directing that all new federal buildings honour classical and traditional design principles. This is a strikingly elegant gesture in a world so often swept away by the stark and impersonal.

As part of nearly one hundred directives issued upon his return to office, this 2025 initiative calls upon government leaders to ensure that public buildings are visually identifiable, rooted in regional heritage, and, above all, beautiful. His aim? To uplift and beautify public spaces and to reintroduce a sense of grandeur, order, and national pride in the very bones of our built environment.

Now, whether one leans in favour or not of such measures politically, there is something undeniably stirring—even comforting—in the notion that classic architecture is defended at the federal level. It is competitive that our beautiful historic buildings may once again whisper stories instead of merely standing cold and hollow.

As someone whose heart beats in rhythm with floorboards and finials, with brick hearths and timeworn thresholds, I cannot help but feel that this moment—yes, this very moment—is poised for something truly wondrous.

It is a turning of the page, not an ending, a gentle passing of the torch, not into obscurity, but into the careful, capable hands of those who still believe in beauty, legacy, and our collective responsibility to remember.

And remember, we shall.

For some of us, preservation is not policy—it is destiny.

And so I live, speak, and act from that certainty.

Chinsegut Hill is mine to love, to tend, to awaken.

And so it shall be.

Most affably yours til my next swim, R