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

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