On the Matter of Being Soft in a Loud World, and Why I Keep Coming Back | The Daily Quillberry
Issue No. 2 | Volume I | Filed under: Quiet Rememberings and Porchlight Truths
“The heart remembers what the pen dares.” ~Hedgwick Quillberry
From the Desk of Hedgewick Quillberry
As Editor-in-Whimsy of the Everbranch Gazette, it is both my duty and mild inconvenience (I was mid-scone, but alas) to formally introduce a new contribution to our syndicated publication.
Let it be known…
The Daily Quillberry now includes a recurring column from a part-time Wondermere resident whose presence—while technically Outrealm-based—has proven both poignant and peculiarly grounding.
Her name is Maribelle “Mari” Wrenwhistle, and her words arrive not in fanfare, but in felt truth.
They are not written with ink alone. They are steeped — like her favorite tea — in lived ache, sacred softness, and the kind of remembering that cannot be taught.
Though she resides in the Outrealm (a location I’m told is overrun with clocks and oddly aggressive self-checkout machines), she often returns to Wondermere during times of soul-weather. When the ache behind the eyes grows heavy. When the breath forgets how to settle. When remembering is not optional, but necessary.
And it is in those moments that her porch on Mossmere Lane becomes a place of shared witness.
Her column, Notes from Mossmere Lane, will be filed at intervals both regular and irregular, depending on portal interference, weather-related melancholy, and the availability of “Gentle Enough” tea.
The Wondermere Council has endorsed this wholeheartedly.
As for me?
I admit — I was skeptical.
I am not fond of non-standard punctuation, lowercase musings, or columns that arrive via dream-scented napkin.
But after reading her first entry…
I placed a hand on my chest and exhaled.
And that, dear reader, is no small feat.
So I invite you to read these letters not as essays, but as soul notes.
Soft-spoken offerings from a woman who walks between worlds… not to escape, but to remember what is sacred.
May her reflections meet you gently.
May they land like moss underfoot.
And may you, too, feel the pull toward your own return.
Yours in feathered ink and reluctant affection,
About the Author:
Hedgwick Quillberry is the Editor-in-Whimsy of the Everbranch Gazette and Keeper of the Quiet Quill. A scholar of stillness and unapologetic comma enthusiast, Hedgwick has devoted his days to documenting the sacred subtleties of Wondermere — preferably with a proper cup of tea and no interruptions. He resides beneath the ivy-blanketed roots of the Elder Oak, where footnotes are filed by moonlight and every pause is sacred. He believes in the magic of handwritten letters, the restorative power of warm biscuits, and the fact that most existential questions can be settled with a brisk walk and a freshly inked nib.
What They’ll Remember Most
A Letter to the Creators, the Carriers, and the Quiet Ones Who Still Care
by Maribelle “Mari” Wrenwhistle
The Council asked if I’d be willing to share a few thoughts on what it means to live between realms. To be one of the “Tethered,” still tangled in the Outrealm’s weight, still doing the laundry and the list-making and the late-night overthinking… and yet softening, slowly, toward wonder.
To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if I was the right person for the task. But then Mom (aka “Grandma Pearl”) just nodded once, like she knew I’d already said yes before the question had finished settling.
They said there are more like me now. More who are tired of pretending. More who ache for a different kind of magic, not the kind with glitter or grandeur, but the kind that helps them breathe again. The kind that asks nothing of them but their presence. The kind that doesn’t require a costume change to be felt.
So here I am, on the porch at Mossmere Lane. Steam rising from my mug. A soft creak beneath me. Bell on my Crocs (compliments of Pippa) jingling every time I shift my weight just a little closer to something true. I don't have a lesson today. But I do have a remembering. And it’s this:
They won’t remember how perfect you made it. Not the polish. Not the bullet points. Not the font pairings or the precisely punctuated pitch. That’s not what lingers. What they will remember is how they felt when they read it… when they landed on your page and exhaled for the first time in hours, maybe days. They'll remember the warmth that bloomed in their chest like someone finally made a room just for them. They'll remember the pause between your sentences and how it gave them permission to breathe. They'll remember that—somehow—you managed to speak directly to the part of them they’ve been tucking away for years.
They’ll remember the fox you introduced them to. The bunny with the glittering crown. The way their smile crept in, not because it was clever, but because it felt like being seen. Truly seen. Not for what they do, but for who they quietly are.
I’ll tell you something I carried for too long…
I used to believe I had to convince people I was worth listening to. That if I said it “just right,” priced it “just right,” positioned myself “just right”… maybe then they’d believe in what I had to offer. Maybe then I’d finally “prove it.”
But that was the “Outrealm” (I’m still learning Wondermere’s lexicon) talking. That was a story built on urgency and exhaustion, on over-efforting and under-receiving. A story that said worth had to be earned, sold, branded, and scaled.
What Wondermere keeps reminding me is that I don’t need to perform to be powerful. I don’t need to shrink to be seen. I don’t need to push to be received. I just need to tell the truth as gently and bravely as I can, and let that truth… my truth be “enough.”
Joy doesn’t need a strategy. It doesn’t need permission. It is the offering. And the ones who are meant for your magic… the ones who are softening too… they will feel it. They won’t need you to explain it. They’ll recognize themselves in the quiet places you create.
So no, I don’t measure my work by reach anymore. I measure it by resonance. By the flicker of a sigh. The quiver behind someone’s “thank you.” The moments someone whispers, “I didn’t know I needed this… until I felt it.”
That’s the sacred part. That’s what lingers. Not the noise. Not the flash. But the feeling that someone made room for your soul in a world that’s been trying to numb it.
So if you’re building something right now, my friend… something soft, something “strange,” something sacred and half-formed… let it be “enough.” Let it be what it is, before you edit it into something it's not.
You don’t have to convince anyone. You just have to stand in your truth long enough for it to become a mirror… for them, and for you.
Because in the end, they won’t remember how perfect you were.
They’ll remember that you made them feel something beautiful,
in a world that almost made them forget how.
And that, my friend…
that is more than enough.
In softness, in slippers,
and still learning how to belong to myself,
About the Writer
Maribelle “Mari” Wrenwhistle is a part-time resident of Wondermere and a full-time feeler in the Outrealm, where she is known to write soft things at odd hours while wrapped in a cardigan that smells like memory. She’s the daughter of Grandma Pearl, a lifelong writer, and an accidental spiritual correspondent who never intended to be read—just understood.
Her dispatches from Mossmere Lane are not so much articles as they are exhalations: reflections on what it means to be tender in a world that demands armor. She writes from the in-between — one foot in magic, the other in laundry — and believes deeply in naps, realness, and soul-making that doesn’t need to go viral to matter.
Mari does not claim to have the answers.
But she asks beautiful questions.
And every now and then, she remembers to listen for the quiet reply.
When not scribbling on napkins or talking to her tea, she can be found sighing on her porch, whispering truth into the moss, and trying (with moderate success) to believe that she’s allowed to belong.
A Closing Note from the Editor’s Desk:
Thank you for meandering through Wondermere today. Your presence is felt, like the quiet warmth of a well-placed bookmark.
Should you find yourself fond of soft rituals, story-laced playbooks, and the occasional soul-spark delivered with a crinkle of parchment—
✨ You might consider becoming a paid subscriber.
It helps keep the lanterns lit, the ink flowing, and Figwynn’s rather excessive Emotion Jar collection properly labeled.
And do remember:
Whether you visit daily or only when the wind nudges you this way—you belong.
This realm is yours to return to.
The door, as always, remains ajar.
“I named the subscription button ‘Harold.’ He gives access to magic.” ~Figwynn
This wonder was crafted with soul and stardust. Please honor the magic by not copying or reposting without permission.
© 2025 Wondermere™ by Dawna Kreis | A soul-crafted realm of sacred play and imaginative healing. Original content. Please do not copy or redistribute without permission.
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