The Stone Rose Cottage of Sovereignty

The Stone Rose Cottage of Sovereignty

Encoded in the Language of Soul Design

She lives just beyond the edge of the known path, where the land begins to dream again. Part wildwood, part open meadow, kissed by the breath of the Earth and wrapped in the kind of golden light that drapes itself over hills like a silk shawl. You can smell the rain mingling with rose oil, and something old in the air remembers you.

The cottage isn’t polished. She’s alive.

Stone walls softened by centuries of wind and hearth smoke.

Ivy curling like memory along her bones.

A wooden door with a brass handle—weathered not by fashion, but by time, and touch, and quiet returns.

Inside, it’s a sanctuary.

The ceilings rise in reverence, supported by timber beams that feel more cathedral than cabin.

There’s a warmth in the air—amber, sandalwood, a trace of rose.

Floorboards creak like stories.

Woven rugs underfoot—ochre, indigo, rust—chosen not for label but for frequency.

In the sitting room, the chairs are soft with invitation.

You don’t perch here—you sink, you melt into the atmosphere.

Here is where books are half-read, tea is sipped slowly, and mornings stretch into meaning.

No television. Just one beloved painting above the fire—hung not as a feature, but as a portal.

It’s not styled. It’s felt.

The fireplace? Generous. Deep.

Always a little ready. Always a little alight.

There are conversations here that echo beyond lifetimes.

The kitchen glows.

Copper pots dangle like bells above the counter.

Herbs hang drying near the window.

There is always something fragrant simmering—cinnamon, rosemary, rose.

And the table—long, welcoming, mismatched on purpose.

It’s made for kin. For the ceremony. For slow evenings and laughter that doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

There’s a library—not vast, but intentional.

Books on mysticism, sacred architecture, poetry, and stars.

Some with notes in the margins. Some with petals pressed between pages.

This is a home that holds both memory and momentum.

The bathroom is its own realm.

A deep, clawfoot tub under a skylight.

When you soak, you see the stars.

Sometimes the moon.

Sometimes the rain tapped rhythmically on the slate-tiled roof.

The water is always kissed with something sacred—eucalyptus, rose milk, jasmine salt, or honey on full moon nights.

The bedroom? A retreat.

Linen canopy. Gentle lamplight.

Robes like clouds, and no clutter.

Just stillness. Presence. Scent.

A space where dreams feel like visitors, not escapes.

And outside?

Oh, the garden…

Untamed, perfumed, alive.

Lavender, jasmine, wild roses, climbing trellises of memory.

Fruit trees. A writing bench. A place to weep if needed. A place to remember joy.

Wind chimes tuned to soul tone.

Perhaps a small shed where you can paint, write, or listen to music.

You don’t dress for the eyes here.

You dress for sensation.

Velvet, linen, silk. Boots with soul.

Jewels that feel like memories.

Nothing performs. Everything whispers.

And yes—someone will sit across from you here one day.

Someone who matches the quiet. Who knows how to listen between silences.

But for now, this home holds only you.

It is becoming, as you are becoming.

It lives already, built in the unseen.

Blessing for Rose Cottage

A place I call home

I call now to the dwelling that already knows me—

to the walls built of memory and weathered stone,

to the hearth that waits with quiet firelight,

to the garden, steeped in perfume and peace.

I bless the beams that will shelter my prayers,

The windows that will cradle starlight on my skin,

the bathtub that will hold the exhale of decades,

and the chairs—oh, the chairs—

That will never ask me to perform.

Let every corner be curved in gentleness.

Let silence fill the spaces between beauty.

Let my art hang not as a display, but as an echo—

of a life fully lived, a soul fully known.

I call back the scent of jasmine and rose.

I call back the feel of silk against my skin.

I call back the sound of my own laughter

echoing off high ceilings in the morning.

Let Rose Cottage rise now from the field of grace—

not as a dream,

But as a landing place.

A place where I belong.

A place where I become.

A place I call home.

And so it is.

And so it lives.

Delahrose Roobie Myer 

Astrologer - Alchemist - Author