My Dear Mermaid Darlings,
{ One of the most delightful notions in having a blog is that I can whinge on about things that have put me out of joint. I have something to say about everything, and if you've been here long enough, you know that; however, from my recent past experiences, I've had the piss taken out of me for some of the posts I've written, and there have been some folks that want me to know I shouldn't be writing about particular notions.
Because heaven forfend, I speak my truth and have an opinion about what swirls around in my curious natured mind. See where I’m going with this; perfect? I thought you might. It's the turncoat nature of the quizzing from others that now leads me to dress down the individuals for their impudence. I am adamant and refuse to be controlled through leveraging, psychological manipulation or bullied into feeling I’m bound and should keep my gob shut; I choose to write honourable posts on a blog for all the world to read, especially my hometown that i love and care for so much! I walk in love, kindness, and grace, creating beauty and uplifting others. Fear and unkindness have no place here. I wish you peace on your journey, just as I have found on mine.}
My throat chakra has flung itself wide open, and silent no more shall I be.
Indeed, today has been one of those cottage days—nightgown, slippers, and a dishwater face to match the grey skies. But amidst the slow simmer of tea and thought, I was reminded of a particular passage in one of the many books chronicling the life of dear Beatrix Potter. It spoke of her remarkable quest to buy up vast stretches of the countryside—not for vanity or conquest but to protect the natural world from being trampled by progress-hungry prats with shovels, blueprints, and blind ambition.
She succeeded gloriously, preserving nearly four thousand acres, farms and all, for generations yet unborn. But in doing so, she ruffled many a feather—especially those belonging to men who, at the time, held a monopoly on both land and literature. They muttered and scowled, offended by the audacity of a woman—an artist and author, no less—who dared to interrupt their plans for industrial sprawl with a firm “no, thank you.” It seems they believed she ought to be reined in, reminded of her “place,” and politely step aside for “progress.”
She succeeded gloriously, preserving nearly four thousand acres, farms and all, for generations yet unborn. But in doing so, she ruffled many a feather—especially those belonging to men who, at the time, held a monopoly on both land and literature. They muttered and scowled, offended by the audacity of a woman—an artist and author, no less—who dared to interrupt their plans for industrial sprawl with a firm “no, thank you.” It seems they believed she ought to be reined in, reminded of her “place,” and politely step aside for “progress.”
To that, I say: bravo, Beatrix. May your stubborn magic and reverence for the land echo forever in hedgerows and fields.
And I must admit, her story stirs a kindred fire within me, for I, too, have grown increasingly disenchanted with the happenings in my own little village of Brooksville, Florida. There is beauty here, yes—but also a creeping carelessness, and I cannot, in good conscience, remain a silent bystander. The land, the legacy, and the spirit of a place matter deeply.
With a heart full of love, I speak now not in rebellion, but in devotion to nature, heritage, and the quiet magic that deserves to be defended.
Though I live in America, the spirit of Beatrix Potter lives most ardently in me. Her love for the land, her refusal to bow to the demands of so-called progress, and her quiet rebellion against the ruin of beauty—I feel it all like an echo in my own bones.
My parents reside on the quiet curve of a cul-de-sac that, for decades, was flanked by untouched forest. Grand trees stood like ancient sentinels, guarding the land in leafy silence. But alas, that peace was shattered only months ago. Where once there was birdsong and breeze, there are now backhoes tearing through root and limb—an entire wood being razed for the construction of numerous small homes. And while my heart is utterly gutted, I must admit: perhaps this is what I needed precisely. A little shake-up often invites a deeper reflection.
I have always known I am not like most. Many find joy in packed neighbourhoods and tight-knit communities where every house touches the next. But I am of a different persuasion. I find my soul in wildflowers and distance to breathe. The land, once taken, cannot be returned—unless one has money to roast, and even then, the spirit cannot be replanted.
And so, I have made a vow: I shall buy up as much land as my bank account will afford me, and i will do so to preserve it. I shall take it under my wing, care for it, and nurture it as if she is a living, breathing soul in need of safeguarding. In addition, this brings me to Chinsegut Hill, our beloved historic site or what once felt historic.
Recently, I attempted to visit the site only to be met with a locked gate and a most curious sight: a mermaid statue posted proudly at the entrance. Now, as a mermaid mystic myself, I hold no prejudice against such symbols. But there is a time, a place, and above all, a tasteful manner for everything. When preservation is replaced with novelty, we lose not just style, but our soul.
Statues, monuments, decorations—these things must serve the story of a place, not distract from it. And sadly, the choices being made of late appear more akin to a party shop spree than a curated homage to our heritage. Led-blue lights strung along historic lamp posts, garish wreaths, and snow displays in subtropical Florida—it all feels a bit like a fever dream with no curator at the helm.
I’m not here to complain but to care—vocally and visibly.
I once attempted to serve this community more formally. I ran for city council but was denied over a boundary line discrepancy—only 500 feet shy of eligibility. Meanwhile, others hold seats using addresses from abandoned homes.
I was told, and I quote: “Write a complaint, but it won’t do much. It’ll just be filed away” when i brought this to light.
So now, I battle in my way: manifesting my heart's desires and writing truth plainly and poetically for all to see. No man shall keep back the tide of purpose when the sea within me is rising.
It is often declared that evil prevails when good folk do nothing. Well, I am doing my bit. And if you, dear reader, live in my little village of Brooksville, Florida, I invite you to do yours, not through outrage, but through thoughtful action, quiet strength, and boundless hope.
For every seed of goodness planted today may bloom into beauty tomorrow—and beauty, my friend, is always worth preserving.
If you are still interested in attending our little cottage core tea party at Chinsegut Hill, please purchase a ticket in my Etsy shoppe. We shall have a whale of a time.
Most affably yours til my next swim, R
No comments:
Post a Comment