| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

The thistle, emblem of Scotland, is often framed as a symbol of resilience. It is brave. It protects. Its spines warn the careless to step with reverence. But for me, the thistle carries another meaning, perhaps one less heralded but true. It speaks to a misunderstood kind of beauty, one that doesn’t ask to be liked or disliked. One that survives, quietly, in harsh soil. It reminds me of those of us who learned, early on, that being ourselves might be dangerous.

I think of a moment when I was six. I had just learned to spell “Mississippi”—a word that, at the time, felt monumental. I was thrilled. At the bus stop, I proudly spelled it for my sister’s best friend, Lindsay, who had taught it to me. “M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I,” I chirped. I was a precocious child, often in my own world, simply delighted by the things I was learning.

What followed was a strange unraveling. A third-grade boy named Justin had trouble spelling it. His girlfriend, Liz, laughed at him. I don’t recall joining in, and I know I didn’t mean harm. But he reported all of us to the school counselor. What might have been an ordinary playground scuffle turned into something else. Everyone was sent for a single sensitivity session, but I was called back again and again.

The school counselor’s hands curled inwards, twisted like old roots or the knuckles of an ancient tree. As a six-year-old steeped in fairy tales, I didn’t know how to separate fact from fiction. She frightened me in the way certain characters in children’s books do, part shadow and part warning. She told me I had done something wrong. I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, but her words made me feel as if my enthusiasm, my brightness, had crossed an invisible line.

I missed the bread-doll activity in class that week, something I had been looking forward to. It was hosted by my classmate Alex’s mother, who made a doll for me since I had missed out. But it isn’t the dolls I remember most or the generosity of Alex’s mom. It is the feeling. That moment marked the beginning of a sensitivity I’ve carried ever since. When I am misunderstood, it doesn’t land on neutral ground. It lands in a wound. A place where I learned to believe that being radiant, being fully myself, might upset or offend. But the fear never came from those who loved me. Among friends and family, my brightness was never questioned.

After starting Kathryn Hastings, a woman I didn’t know sent me a message. “You should save some antiques for others,” she wrote. “But maybe because I was raised blue collar, I learned to not be greedy.” Anyone reading that would see her bitterness. But the wound she aimed for was already there. My love of beauty. My joy of collecting, and letting the juxtaposition of objects teach us about the world. She saw only frivolity and greed, not stewardship. She saw “too much,” not care. And some part of me, some six-year-old still inside, felt judged for being bad.

But this is the work. The thistle’s work. To bloom anyway.

I know I wouldn’t have received that woman’s critique if I weren’t publicly sharing the work. That’s the paradox of voice. To be heard is to be seen. And to be seen is, sometimes, to be misunderstood. For those of us who carry old wounds about being too much, that misunderstanding can feel like poison.

But it is also medicine. A mirror held to the parts of us still in hiding.

Brené Brown writes about the difference between fitting in and belonging. Fitting in asks us to shape-shift, to trim our edges, to blend. Belonging asks us to stand as we are and trust we will be met there. Letter writing, I’ve found, is a path to that kind of belonging. It allows space for the slow revelation of the self. When you find a friend who can hold that with you, the act of writing becomes a gentle unmasking.

If you imagine a world where all flowers were people, most would assume we should look like roses: fragrant, open, easy to admire. But some of us are a damp and peaty bog moss. Some of us are ivy, climbing in the shadows of old haunted and crumbling brick buildings. Some of us are thistles.

We are not loved for our ease. We are not gathered for bouquets. But we hold firm. We bloom where others won’t. And in our quiet defiance, we whisper to those around us: Trust your voice. Trust your longing. Trust that you, exactly as you are, belong.

Seal of the Week: Thistle

The newest Kathryn Hastings Floriography Seal, the Thistle is here, and it is a timeless beauty. It carries the symbolism of thistle, and also reminds us to find our own interpretation of what this hearty bloom means to each of us individually.

Color of the Week: Caledonia

In Scottish history, "Caledonia" was the Latin name given to the area that we now know as Scotland. It was a land of wild, untamed beauty, full of ancient forests, rushing rivers, and rugged hills. Today, the name "Caledonia" still evokes the spirit of this awe-inspiring land, and Caledonia Wax is a tribute to that spirit.

In addition, the deep green color of Caledonia Wax is often associated with growth, renewal, and vitality. It is a color that is full of life and energy, and it symbolizes the deep connection between humans and the natural world.

Seattle Salon - Spaces filling

Spaces are filling for the Hastings Seattle Salon, a two-day immersive workshop held in my home and limited for just four guests at a time. It's intentionally spacious and slow so we can get to know each other over the art of wax seals with my historic collection.

Upcoming Dates:
• August 22–23 (2 spots remaning)
• October 2–3 (3 spots remaining)

Each day includes guided creative sessions, a luxurious tea service, and time to reflect, restore, and reconnect. We close with a beautiful dinner on the second evening to celebrate the journey we've shared.

Guests arrange their own travel and lodging (Hotel Ballard or nearby Airbnbs are ideal).

Whether you’re returning to your art or craving stillness, the salon offers a space to meet your creativity, and kindred spirits, face to face.

Back in Stock

This week, a few favorite seals have returned to the shop. They are selling out quickly; so I recommend ordering yours today if you'd like them for the cozy season ahead.