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Breathing Space Today, Stilbaai, Stilbaai (2025)

19/05/2025

Have I ever told you the tale of Mouse and the Very First Monday, Best Beloved? No? Then sit you down and let your paws rest, for this is a story stitched from the finest threads of time and memory, and it begins—quite naturally—on a Monday morning, when the world was young and still full of stars.

Now, in those olden days when the sun yawned before rising and the rivers were still learning their way to the sea, there lived a small creature with a nose for stories and a tail like a question mark. Her name was Mouse, and she was rather smaller than a teacup but bigger than a thimble, and she had the most enormous heart you could possibly imagine.

Mouse had a particular fondness for Mondays, though she didn’t quite know why. Perhaps it was the way the light came sideways through the trees, or the way the air smelt of beginnings. Every Monday, Mouse would spring from her mossy bed with the eagerness of someone quite certain that something marvellous was about to happen.

And one marvellous Monday, as the dew still clung like lace to the grass and the robins were having their morning choir practice, Mouse found herself trotting (with a very purposeful sort of scurry) through a part of The Glen she hadn’t explored before.

There, at the edge of a glade where the brambles bowed like courtiers, stood a Grand Old Oak with bark as wrinkled as a wise old grandmother’s hand. And beneath that tree sat a Being unlike any Mouse had ever seen.

He wore a robe stitched from the night sky itself—complete with twinkling stars that blinked if you stared too long—and his beard was made of silvery mist and old stories. He was not quite a creature, not quite a shadow, not quite a clock, but all three at once.

Mouse, being a polite sort of soul, gave a courteous squeak and a little curtsy.
“Good morning, Ancient One. May I ask, ever so humbly, who you might be?”

The Being turned his gaze down (down, down!) and smiled, a smile that smelt faintly of old paper and warm embers.
“I am Time,” he said. “And I come here to rest on Mondays. The world begins again today, and even Time needs to sit down now and then.”

Mouse’s whiskers twitched.
“Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Time. I’m Mouse. I’ve been out collecting moments, you see. Today’s sunrise was the colour of apricot jam, and the wind whispered three secrets and a riddle I haven’t solved yet. Do you collect memories too?”

Time gave a soft chuckle, which sounded like a thousand clocks sighing at once.
“Oh, my dear Mouse. I don’t just collect them—I keep them. I carry the dreams of the first mountain and the last wave, the laughter of long-lost feasts, the hush before the first snowfall. I keep everything the world has ever known.”

Mouse sat very still, which is not easy when your whole self is filled with fizz.
“But... why? Why keep all those memories?”

Time’s eyes grew far away, as if looking into a place where the past sleeps.
“Because memories are the map of where we’ve walked and the lanterns that light where we’re going. They remind us who we are, and sometimes, why we are.”

Mouse nodded, very slowly. She thought of the sun she’d seen that morning, and the way the brook had skipped over the stones, and how her tail had twitched when she’d smelt cinnamon on the wind.
“I think I understand. Every moment is a treasure, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” said Time. “But remember, little one—if you spend all your moments collecting, you might forget to live them.”

And oh! That struck Mouse deep in her little heart, like when you find a letter in your pocket and it still smells of home.

So Mouse stood, brushed off her paws, and gave a most solemn promise.
“I will keep collecting, but I will also savour. I will scurry slower. I will nibble my tea biscuits mindfully. I shall live my Mondays with joy, for they come but once a week.”

Time smiled again. “You are wiser than many who wear boots and carry watches. Go well, little Collector.”

And from that day onward, Best Beloved, Mouse did just that. She became the Official Monday Rememberer of The Glen. If ever you feel something tug at your heart on a Monday morning, as though a tale is beginning and the air smells unusually curious—it might just be Mouse, scurrying nearby with a notebook under her arm and a crumb in her whiskers, making a memory of you.

And that is How Mouse Came to Collect Mondays.
But that’s another memory now, and it’s time for tea.

🌱 If today’s tale of Mouse and the Very First Monday brought a smile to your whiskers or a warmth to your paws, then you’re in the right part of the forest. The Glen has many more stories—some with star-cloaked strangers, some with marmalade light, and all with wonder stitched into their seams.

🎧 You can listen to more tales from The Glen on YouTube—ideal for quiet corners, candlelit evenings, or when your heart needs reminding that small things matter most.

🛒 And if you’d like to keep a tale close, pop by www.victoriabeata.shop where beautifully illustrated books, cards, and prints are waiting to make themselves at home on your shelf, or someone else’s.

✨ However you travel with us—by crumb trail, by moonbeam, or by Monday magic—thank you, Best Beloved, for being part of the story.

With love from the teacup, the toadstool, and Time himself,
Victoria Beata
Author & Illustrator of Tales of The Glen

16/05/2025

Now, dearest soul, lean in a little closer, for this is a story best heard with your feet tucked up, your paws warm, and your heart listening just so. It was told one starlit evening in the Woods of Claughbane, where the trees bend kindly to hear what’s being said, and the moss remembers every tale ever told.

Rabbit was there, of course. You’d have known him by his coat—soft as twilight and stitched at the edges with starlight—and by the way he always carried that large, timeworn book. The one with bark for covers and fern-frond bookmarks and pages that smelt like leather.

He sat at the edge of a quiet fire, not roaring but dreaming—a little flicker-flame in a ring of stones, just enough to warm whiskers and toes. Around him, in a stillness made of rustle and breath, came the listeners. Hedgehog in her quilted shawl, Owl with his eyes half-lidded but never sleeping, Mouse nibbling something sweet, and even the wind paused his wildness to settle down and listen too.

Rabbit turned a page with a paw that knew how to be gentle.

“Tonight,” he began, and oh how the clearing grew still, “I shall tell you what I saw from the very top of mighty Snaefell, when the sky was so clear you could almost see dreams sailing through it. On that day, I saw not just land—but kingdoms. Seven of them, no less. Each one a marvel. Each one a song.”

He looked up through the pine branches to where the stars blinked knowingly, and then he began.

“To the west,” he said, “lies the Kingdom of Erin, where every word is a tune, and the people greet each other with laughter that dances like fiddle-strings. Even the grass there sings, and the trees sway to music only the heart can hear.”

Mouse let out a little sigh, and Owl gave a thoughtful blink.

“To the north,” Rabbit continued, “rests the Kingdom of Alba. Its waters run deep and true. If you peer into a loch on a quiet day, you won’t just see your reflection—you’ll see your soul, looking back at you with ancient knowing.”

Rabbit smiled at Owl. “It’s a place for watchers and wisdom-seekers.”

“And in the south,” he said, voice rising with the heat of remembered fire, “dwells the Kingdom of the Red Dragon. The earth there burns with spirit, and the people speak with fire in their veins. Their stories are brave, their laughter loud, their love fierce and lasting.”

Then he turned a little, nose twitching eastward. “Ah, and there lies the land of the White Cliffs, the Kingdom of Story and Stone. It’s a place of old legends—where swords once shimmered in lakes and great trees whispered names that echo still. The land itself seems to remember.”

“But that’s not all,” Rabbit said, and his eyes shone now. “Look up—yes, just there. That’s the Heavenly Kingdom, not of earth, but of sky. The stars move like elders dancing, shaping the seasons, keeping watch. They remind us that we’re never alone, even in our smallest thoughts.”

The wind gave a quiet nod.

“And beneath it all,” Rabbit went on, voice softer now, “there’s the Kingdom of the Sea. It surrounds us, you know. It kisses our shores and carries our dreams. The waves know secrets even older than I, and if you listen—truly listen—they will tell you things you’d forgotten you remembered.”

Mouse leant against Hedgehog’s side, and Cat—who had arrived silently and sat now upon a golden cushion—gave the tiniest approving blink.

Rabbit closed the book with reverence.

“And here we are,” he said, tapping his paw on the mossy ground. “Ellan Vannin. Our own small, mighty island in the centre of it all. The Kingdom of Spirit, where every creature, great or wee, has a place. Where the trees know your name and the soil sings your steps back home.”

And that, dear listener, was the end of the tale, though the fire glowed long after and not a creature stirred. The stars above blinked in peaceful satisfaction, and a quiet settled over the glade, the kind of quiet that holds a thousand lullabies. The kind that only comes after a good story has been told, and hearts have quietly remembered something they didn’t know they’d forgotten.

So rest now, gentle soul. You are part of the Seven Kingdoms too.

And in this Glen, you are loved. Just so, and forevermore.

🌌 If this story lit a lantern in your heart—or helped you remember something soft and ancient—you are already part of The Glen. These tales are for you, Best Beloved, and they will wait for you always.

🎧 You can listen to more stories like this on YouTube—perfect for quiet nights, wondering hearts, and anyone who feels the call of far-off kingdoms and homegrown magic.

🛒 And if you’d like to hold a piece of The Glen in your hands, visit www.victoriabeata.shop where illustrated books, cards, and prints await—each one a story stitched in ink and soul, made to last.

✨ Whether you read, listen, or dream beside the fire, thank you for being part of this tale. You belong here, among the stars and roots and wild, winding paths.

With love from the heart of the island,
Victoria Beata
Author & Illustrator of Tales of The Glen

26/04/2025

Being you is your super power. 🦸🏼‍♀️ Don’t dim your quirks to be a knock-off version of someone else. Embrace those idiosyncrasies! 😉

Artist: Robbie Shilstone 🎨🧑🏻‍🎨🖌️

24/04/2025

Come closer now. Don’t worry about bedtime just yet. Tonight isn’t made for hurrying. Let’s sit right here, under the toadstool, with the moss soft beneath us and the stars high above. The waterfall’s still murmuring to the trees, and the bluebells are sighing themselves to sleep.

But the stars… oh, the stars are still wide awake.

Listen.

They’re saying something.

Can you hear them?

That one there, just above the crooked branch—it’s older than all our stories. It’s not loud, not boastful. Just steady. It says:

“You are not forgotten.”

And next to it, the little flickering one, quick as a blink—it says:

“You tried today. That matters more than anyone knows.”

And those three together, near the moon, like buttons on a coat? They’re murmuring:

“Rest now. The world will still be here when you open your eyes again. Softer, maybe.”

You don’t need to answer them. Just listen.

Sometimes it’s enough to be still and let the night wrap around you like a shawl. The stars aren’t waiting for applause or poetry. They just want you to know:

You’ve done well to make it here.
You’ve done well to feel so much.
You are loved without needing to prove a single thing.

So we’ll stay, you and I, for just a little while longer.

Let the night hold us gently, like a lullaby with no beginning and no end.

And if the stars go quiet at last, we’ll know it’s only because they’ve said everything they needed to say.

When the last star gives its last small blink, and the night folds in on itself like a well-worn quilt, Mouse closes her book with a soft shuff. Not a grand snap, just the sound of a story putting itself to bed.

She doesn’t rush.

She tucks the book close to her side. She pats it once, as if to say, thank you for staying awake with me.

Then, slowly, she rises from her seat. Her dress is a little crumpled at the hem from sitting so long, and she smooths it down with both paws. No one’s watching, but she still does it properly. That’s the way of things.

She turns once more to the waterfall. It’s quieter now. Almost sleepy. She nods to it, then to the moss, then to the bluebells.

And at last, she speaks—not loudly, just enough for the leaves to carry the sound to anyone who might be listening:

"Goodnight, dear ones. Be kind to each other. And if you find someone awake and wondering, sit with them a while."

She lifts her skirts just a little and begins the walk home, the long way, through the trees that know her footfall. The moonlight lights the path like it always has, and the wind doesn’t stir the branches too much—it knows Mouse is thinking.

By the time she reaches her door, the first pale blush of dawn is curled up on the horizon, still half-asleep. She gives it a look and says, gently:

"I’ve left the night tidied up behind me. You can begin when you’re ready."

Then inside she goes, and the door clicks shut.

Sleep well, little one. Come again tomorrow—there’s always room beneath the toadstool, and always another story waiting to be told.

Goodnight from The Glen.
With love from Mouse.

P.S. The Book of Tales of The Glen is now ready, with a story tucked inside like a treasure chest for your heart. You can find it at:
🌿 www.victoriabeata.shop 🌿

Just follow the pawprints.

18/04/2025

“It’s a quiet night tonight, isn’t it, Piglet?” said Pooh, gazing up at the stars.
“It certainly is,” said Piglet, his little paw resting on his friend’s.

“What do you think the stars talk about?” asked Pooh. “When we’re not listening, I mean.”
Piglet thought for a moment. “I think they talk about light,” he said. “About how even in the darkest skies, they shine as best as they can, no matter how small they are. Because they know someone, somewhere, is looking up and needs to see them.”

Pooh smiled. “That’s a lovely thought, Piglet. Do you think we’re like that too? Little stars, shining for each other?”
Piglet nodded. “Yes, Pooh. I think that’s what we’re meant to do. To be a little light for someone, even when the night feels very big and very dark.”

Pooh sat quietly for a moment, then said, “If that’s true, Piglet, then I think you’re the brightest star I know. Even on my gloomiest days, you make me feel like everything will be alright.”
“And you’re mine, Pooh,” said Piglet, softly. “Because with you, I always feel safe, even when the woods seem scary, or the path isn’t clear.”

The two friends sat together under the stars, wrapped in the kind of quiet love that doesn’t need grand gestures or fancy words. Just presence. Just care. Just two lights shining for each other in the great big world.
“What do you think we should do tomorrow?” asked Pooh after a while.
“I think we should just keep shining,” said Piglet.

{PS}

18/04/2025

CHANGE THE WAY YOU SEE

I don’t have crow’s feet,
I have happy happy memories of laughing with friends until the tears flowed.

I don’t have frown lines,
I have the marks of my frustration and confusion, which I battled through, smiling in the end.

I am not going grey,
I have shimmering highlights of wisdom, dashed throughout my silver hair.

I don’t have scars,
I have symbols of the strength I was able to find, when life got tough.

I don’t have stretch marks,
I have the marks of growth and the marks of motherhood. My womanly evolution.

I am not fat,
I bear the evidence of a life filled with abundance, blessings and good times.

I am not just forgetful,
I have a mind so full of stories, memories and moments there is scarce room to hold much else.

I am not old,
I am blessed, with a life of great length, something not everyone can say.

Don’t change the way you look my friend,
change the way you see,

change the way you see.

Donna Ashworth
From ‘To The Women’ 📕

https://amzn.eu/d/7ksOCV1

Art by the astounding Jonas Peterson

18/04/2025

Sometimes, I feel there's so much we can learn from the simple life of a dog. They don’t dwell on the past or stress about the future—they embrace the present with pure joy. Whether it’s a walk, a treat, or simply being with loved ones, they find happiness in the little things.

Dogs teach us that true contentment doesn’t have to be complicated. Their effortless way of living reminds us to appreciate the moment, cherish what we have, and never take life’s simplest pleasures for granted.

~ R. M. Drake from Dog People

~ Art by Steve Sanderson

18/04/2025

Choose joy! 🌿🦋🍃 Don’t wait for things to get easier, simpler, better. Life will always be complicated. Learn to be happy right now. Otherwise you’ll run out of time.

18/04/2025

Happy birthday to the poet who found eternity in wildflowers, wisdom in quiet moments, and heaven in the heart of a child. 🌿🍇🐿💕 William Wordsworth, born today in 1770, was one of the most influential of England's Romantic poets and the country's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850.

Artwork by Asako Eguchi 🎨🖌

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