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

When the Striving Grows Quiet

My dear Mermaid Darlings and cherished friends of Stillwater Petticoat Society,

This morning arrived with a curious sort of clarity; not the loud kind that announces itself from a rooftop, but the gentle sort that slips through an open window whilst the kettle hums and the world has not yet quite awakened.

I have spent much of my life believing that if I loved a little harder, worked a little longer, gave a little more of myself, then perhaps I would finally feel seen. Many of us who grew up feeling overlooked learn this lesson early; we become caretakers, peacemakers, and steady hands for everyone around us, often without realising that we have quietly abandoned ourselves in the process.

Yet there comes a season when one begins to understand that whatever we most long to receive from others must first be supplied from within.

If we desire appreciation, we must learn to appreciate ourselves. If we desire kindness, we must extend it inward. If we wish for someone to fill our cup, we must first discover the spring that already rests beneath our own feet.

The difficulty lies in accepting that no person can wholly provide what the soul requires. They may add sweetness to our tea; they may walk beside us for a little while; they may offer encouragement when the road grows steep. Yet the deeper work belongs to us alone.

I believe that is why so many of us find ourselves arriving at a peculiar crossroads, one where striving begins to lose its charm and peace becomes far more attractive than pursuit.

Perhaps that is not surrender at all, perhaps it is wisdom. 

For those of you listening faithfully to my subliminals, you may have noticed something rather curious. Occasionally, a recording that once brought comfort suddenly feels irritating, and you find yourself wanting to switch it off altogether. Many people become concerned when this happens, though I have found it to be a familiar part of the voyage.

The subconscious mind rarely welcomes change with open arms. It prefers the old pathways, even when they no longer serve us. When a new belief begins to take root, the mind often pushes back. A little resistance is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong; often, it is evidence that something is shifting.

Persist gently, my dear.

Not with force, nor frustration, but with the quiet certainty that a gardener brings to her seeds. She does not dig them up each morning to see whether they have grown; she simply tends them and trusts the process.

If you have not yet collected the free subliminals, you are welcome to email (Raquel@RaquelCarter.com) me, and I shall happily send them along. I continue to share new videos on YouTube throughout the week, along with regular live gatherings for those walking this path beside me.

Here at Scarlette Rose Cottage, life has found its rhythm once more.

The shelves now stand in place, and after nearly two years of boxes, wrappings, and little piles waiting their turn, I can finally see the shape of home emerging again. A few projects still wait patiently in the wings. I hope to finish the fireplace board very soon, perhaps this week if energy allows, though next week seems equally content to receive it.

Most days, I retreat to the cottage and lose myself amongst stories.

Two new children’s books sit open upon my desk, waiting for their next chapters, and I confess I am quite impatient to begin the illustrations. There is something magical about reaching that stage, when words begin to ask for colour.

Sweet little Buckaroo has also returned home from the taxidermist. I shall be creating a glass case for him and hope to fashion something reminiscent of the cover of The Tale of the Christmas Bunnies. It will require a rather grand shelf when finished, though I suspect he would approve of such arrangements.

There are many adventures ahead; quiet ones, creative ones, and perhaps a few unexpected ones as well.

If you should like to keep company with me between letters, I share glimpses of daily cottage life on Instagram stories each day. It remains the one place where I gather most regularly, and I should be delighted to see you there.

As for me, the dough is waiting upon the kitchen counter, and a week’s worth of bread will not make itself. The afternoon sun has begun to shift across the windows, and that seems as good a signal as any to tie on an apron and carry on.

Until next time, my dear friends, may your cup be filled from within, your heart remain light, and your days unfold with a little more peace than striving.

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

Chinsegut Hill; Stewardship, Accountability, and the Questions That Remain

My dear mermaid darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There are certain places that settle so deeply into one’s affections that they cease to feel like buildings and begin to feel like old companions. Chinsegut Hill has always been such a place for me. Some houses occupy land; others occupy memory; and every so often, one encounters a place that gathers stories, hopes, disappointments, history, and possibility until it becomes something rather greater than the sum of its walls.

For many years now, Chinsegut Hill has occupied such a place in my thoughts.

I have written about her often. I have wandered her grounds beneath the oaks, studied her history, attended meetings, read reports, examined records, and imagined what might become possible if such a remarkable property were entrusted to thoughtful stewardship and careful restoration. Yet there is one part of this story I have perhaps never fully explained.

Many people know that I have written about Chinsegut Hill, far fewer realise that I spent more than six years attempting to become involved in her future.

Long before a proposal process existed, I was developing educational programmes, preservation ideas, horticultural plans, workshops, historical interpretation projects, and ways in which the property might once again become a living place of learning and community. When Hernando County eventually invited proposals for the future stewardship of Chinsegut Hill, I did not remain upon the shoreline watching the tide. I submitted a proposal of my own.

Unlike many of those involved, I did not have consultants, grant writers, institutional partners, university affiliations, a preservation organisation, or a committee standing behind me. I had years of research, a profound affection for the property, and a willingness to undertake the work because I believed participation ought to matter when citizens are invited to participate.

The experience was not without challenges. Certain procedural requirements became fully apparent only as deadlines approached, leaving precious little time to assemble what was required, and there were moments when I felt rather like a guest invited to supper only to discover the menu after the meal had already begun. Nevertheless, I completed the proposal because Chinsegut Hill deserved every serious effort that could be made on her behalf.

What remains remarkable to me is not that my proposal did not prevail.

It is that a single citizen working largely alone received approximately 42% of the available points, whilst an established preservation organisation supported by numerous individuals, advisors, volunteers, and resources received approximately 73%.

Those figures tell an interesting story.

Not because they suggest the outcome should have been different, but because they demonstrate that devotion, preparation, and commitment are not always measured by the size of an organisation or the number of names appearing upon a letterhead.

Indeed, I have often thought that stewardship may depend less upon structure and more upon affection; less upon administration and more upon whether one is willing to devote years of one’s life to a place without any guarantee of reward.

Yet even now, my thoughts return less to the outcome than to the purpose of the process itself.

Citizens were invited to participate. Proposals were assembled. Research was conducted. Plans were developed. Scores were assigned. Rankings were published.

Yet the institution that ultimately awarded stewardship did not itself participate in that same proposal process.

I mention this not out of anger, nor out of any desire to diminish the efforts of others, but because certain questions seem to arise naturally whenever public assets, public processes, and public trust meet at the same table.

If proposals were requested, what role did those proposals ultimately play?

If scores were assigned, how heavily were they weighted?

If citizens devoted months and years of their lives to participating in the process, what influence did that participation ultimately carry?

These do not strike me as hostile questions; they strike me as responsible ones.

There is another question that deserves equal attention.

Over the past several years, more than half a million dollars has been directed toward Chinsegut Hill through various agreements, partnerships, management arrangements, and operational structures, and that figure does not include the current year’s budget. At the same time, we have repeatedly been told that operations remain in the red.

I know this because I have taken the time to read the reports, review the documents, attend the meetings, and speak directly with those involved in managing the property.

This ultimately leaves me wondering what many citizens may reasonably wonder, and where are the measurable results?

Historic houses possess a remarkable honesty. They care very little for announcements, administrative arrangements, partnerships, presentations, or carefully crafted statements. They reveal stewardship through outcomes.

One expects to see restoration, completed projects, and visible progress that correspond to years of investment and effort.

That is not criticism, it is accountability.

For one cannot speak endlessly of preservation whilst avoiding conversations concerning benchmarks, timelines, restoration goals, public reporting, and measurable outcomes.

Perhaps these questions matter because Chinsegut Hill does not belong to a university, an organisation, a commission, or an administration.

The county of Hernando serves as the steward and leaseholder, but ownership ultimately rests with the people of Florida. The property is held in trust for future generations who have yet to walk her grounds, sit beneath her oaks, or discover her history.

Stewardship, at least as I understand it, has never been a matter of contracts or control. It is a matter of responsibility.

And perhaps this is also the appropriate moment to say something I have rarely stated quite so plainly.

I did not devote six years to Chinsegut Hill merely because I admired the view from the hilltop. I spent those years preparing because I hoped one day to help steward her future.

I hoped to see the manor carefully restored and the retreat centre brought back to life as a place of learning, preservation, horticulture, craftsmanship, history, and community. I imagined workshops filling the rooms once more, gardens flourishing beneath attentive hands, educational programmes welcoming visitors, and the property becoming not merely a monument to the past but a living part of Hernando County’s future.

That vision was never rooted in ownership. It was rooted in stewardship, and my darling stewardship is not possession; it is service.

It is the quiet promise to leave a place stronger, healthier, and more meaningful than one found it.

Perhaps that is why I continue writing about Chinsegut Hill after all these years. Not because I seek conflict, nor because I cannot accept that others may see things differently, but because genuine care rarely departs when circumstances become inconvenient. It remains attentive. It watches. It hopes.

Long after contracts expire, administrations change, committees dissolve, and organisations move on to other priorities, Chinsegut Hill will still stand upon her hilltop overlooking the county she has watched for generations.

Future citizens will not judge us by the number of meetings we held, the partnerships we announced, the reports we published, or the responsibilities we transferred from one entity to another.

They will judge us by whether the house was preserved, the history survived, or the stewardship proved worthy of the trust placed within it.

And in the end, that is the only measure that truly matters.

And if you should wish to follow the continuing story of Chinsegut Hill, I do hope you will visit me here upon the blog, where I endeavour to share developments with honesty, care, and as much transparency as the circumstances allow. I also keep a dedicated corner for the manor at ChinsegutHill.com, where records, observations, and updates may always be found gathered together.

For those who cherish the beauty of the old estate as I do, you may also enjoy my illustrated books and watercolour paintings inspired by Chinsegut Hill itself; its winding paths, ancient oaks, quiet rooms, and the enduring spirit that lingers upon the grounds. Over the years, I have sought not merely to document the place, but to preserve something of its atmosphere upon paper; a small remembrance of a Florida treasure that has captured my heart for many years.

You may also find further conversations, walks through the history of the estate, preservation discussions, and countless reflections upon the manor and its future upon my YouTube channel, where I have devoted many hours to sharing its story.

However, the next chapter unfolds, I shall continue to keep a faithful watch upon the hill, and should you care to follow along, I would be delighted to have your company.

For more than six years, I have dedicated myself to studying Chinsegut Hill, and I intend to continue following her story with the same care, curiosity, and commitment that first drew me through her gates.

After all, stewardship begins with paying attention.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim, LR

The Soul of a Town Lives in Its Old Houses

My mermaid darlings of Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There are moments whilst wandering the old roads of Brooksville when one comes upon a house standing so quietly beneath the trees that it almost appears to breathe. Time settles gently upon her porches; vines gather at her hems; the paint softens beneath years of rain and Florida sun; and still she remains dignified somehow, as though she remembers herself even whilst others begin to forget.  

I have often thought England understands this sort of thing rather beautifully. There, they do not always cast aside an old building merely because she has grown weathered or inconvenient. Entire villages gather round ancient cottages and centuries-old inns with a kind of familial devotion; and sometimes they will even lift an entire structure from the earth itself and carry her elsewhere rather than allow her to disappear entirely. One senses a reverence there, not merely for architecture, but for continuity.  

And here in Florida, I think of Cracker Country with much the same affection; the little schoolhouse, the church, the mercantile, and those weathered homes gathered carefully together so another generation may still walk their wooden floors and understand something of where they came from. Someone once loved those places enough to preserve them, and because of that devotion, children may now place their hands upon history rather than merely hear its whispers secondhand.  

I understand fully that restoration asks much of people. Old homes require patience, craftsmanship, vision, and, oftentimes, money that feels difficult to justify in a hurried world increasingly devoted to disposability. Yet I cannot help believing this is precisely where our boys and girls learn stewardship. A young soul taught to mend an old window, restore a porch rail, oil worn timber, or repair an ancient roof does not simply learn labour; they inherit care itself. They begin to understand that beautiful things need not be discarded merely because they have weathered a storm or two.  

I often think Elizabeth Robins herself would have smiled knowingly at such thoughts. Even within her letters regarding Chinsegut Hill, one finds traces of the endless balancing act restoration demands. She once wrote to Florence with amused exasperation regarding workers more interested in making music than tending properly to the roof or her workroom, and somehow I find comfort in that small humanity crossing through the years. Old houses have always required people willing to love them beyond inconvenience.  

Perhaps that is why places such as Chinsegut Hill and the old homes scattered quietly through our town matter so deeply to me. They are not simply structures of brick, pine, plaster, and paint. They hold memory, grief, laughter, ambition, supper conversations, summer storms, and the temperament of a people. Once lost, something vanishes with them that no hurried replica may faithfully return.  

And still, I remain hopeful. I believe there are many tender hearts quietly longing to see these places cared for properly again. Sometimes a town needs only to remember that preservation is not the refusal of progress; it is the gracious carrying forward of what was once worthy and remains worthy still.

 

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