| THE EPISTOLARIAN |
We’re told we’ve never been more connected. But too often, we’re connected to all the wrong things. Our attention, precious and limited, is pulled by push notifications, by headlines, by a world that reads like a dystopian novel I once put down because it felt too far-fetched. The noise is constant. And somewhere beneath it, our inner lives begin to fade, quieted by urgency, deferred by distraction.
What does it mean to live a beautiful and noble life in a world that moves fast and frightens us? To stay open and engaged, without letting its chaos dictate the quality of our days?
| Pansy Wax Seal |
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One evening this week, I set my phone aside. I brewed tea, lit a candle, and reached for a sheet of paper. That quiet choice—pen over panic—felt like reclaiming a part of myself. A small return to the kind of life I’d be proud of at the end.
For me, the answer has come through letter writing, and the creative ritual of sealing them by hand.
A letter is one of the few forms of communication that hasn’t been absorbed into the digital economy. It isn’t tracked or monetized. It doesn’t feed metrics or optimize engagement. It’s not public or performative—it’s intimate. A letter resists the systems that dominate so much of our daily lives. It offers presence. Stillness. Room to be with ourselves and others.
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To write a letter is to reclaim time. To feel rather than perform. We’ve lost the depth that comes with pause. A letter gives emotions the room to rise, speak, and pass. It lets us sit with discomfort instead of scroll past it. Emotions, like weather, don’t need fixing—only feeling.
This kind of quiet isn’t familiar to most of us. We’ve been trained to react instantly: to post, reply, consume. But writing interrupts that cycle. It brings us back to ourselves. We remember we have bodies.
My letters with Francesca, though less frequent than I’d like, seem to fold the Atlantic in two. Her hometown, Helsingør, and mine, Seattle, become one—our desks, our living rooms joined—as if time and space agree to soften for the sake of friendship.
When I write letters, I often don’t know what I think until the words appear. There’s no audience—just the person on the other end. The letter becomes a space to work something out, to sit with the mess, to meet myself on the page and offer something true to another. It’s a conversation between souls.
Even when the person is gone, the letter remains. I have the handwriting of those I’ve loved. My grandmother Neenie passed before I was old enough for the deep conversations we both would have cherished. But I still have her writing, and in a way, that means she never left.
| Three Graces Seal |
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Growing up in the American West, I think often about wilderness—not just the landscape, but the interior kind. The kind that resists taming. The way outer wilderness creates an inner expanse. In Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey writes, “We need wilderness… even though we may never need to go there. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope.” That’s how I feel about letters. They are wilderness. They give us room to roam inward.
Historically, letters crossed vast wildernesses to find their reader. Today, they help us reclaim the wilderness within—the uncharted terrain of feeling, memory, and attention. In a time when even our thoughts are curated by invisible hands, a letter is a rare act of self-direction.
And it is also a ceremony.
A letter is a kind of ceremony: the candle lit beside you, the feel of the paper, the slow pour of wax. A sacred idleness. The slowness isn’t a flaw—it’s the point.
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Sometimes people misunderstand letters and seals—mistaking them for affectation or cosplay. But to me, these gestures are vital. They slow us down. They capture people. They hold them.
Letter writing marks time. It makes the ordinary meaningful.
Modern technology gives us immediacy. Letters give us depth. Not a rejection—just a return. A recalibration of what matters.
The future of letter writing isn’t nostalgic; it’s necessary. It offers a kind of presence that can’t be engineered or sold. It doesn’t seek virality. It seeks truth. It rewards slowness. It’s a gesture of trust in our shared humanity.
This is why I believe letter writing has a future—because it returns us to what is real.
And perhaps, when all else has sped past, the letter remains:
A soul on the page.
A pause, mid-chaos.
An artifact that says: I was here. You mattered to me.
The Hastings Seattle Salon
Last month, I had the joy of welcoming five wonderful women into my home for the first-ever Seattle salon. It was a beautiful way to share my art and create space for other artists to connect, reflect, and be inspired.
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For that first gathering, I had planned several tourist activities—but I found myself craving more time simply to be together: to create, to talk, to enjoy the beauty of unhurried connection. So I’ve simplified the format for future salons, allowing more space for creativity, intimacy, and rest.
There are two upcoming salon sessions, one in August and one in October:
- AUGUST - Thursday, August 21st & Friday, August 22nd
- OCTOBER - Thursday, October 2nd & Friday, October 3rd
| Workshop Enrollment |
✦ Day One
- Morning: We begin with a warm welcome and creative workshop in my home. This will feature both antique and modern seals, allowing each participant to work with the seals that most speak to them.
- Midday: We pause for an elegant tea service—an opportunity to connect and relax.
- Afternoon: We return to our creative work, unfolding at an unhurried pace.
- Evening: This time is yours—to rest, wander, or simply let the day settle.
✦ Day Two
- Morning: We gather over morning pastries and continue our creative practice in good company.
- Early Afternoon: The workshop portion concludes, offering a quiet space to reflect.
- Evening: We reunite for a thoughtfully chosen dinner at one of my favorite Seattle restaurants—a chance to celebrate our time together and for me to treat you to a place I love.
Seal of the Week: The Lobster Set
There are eight lobster seal sets remaining. I do plan to release these as individual seals in the future, but I’m giving priority now to those who wish to collect them as a set.
The larger seal features a simple, classic rendering of a lobster. The smaller companion seal bears a shell border with the inscription: I could just dip you in butter.
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Years ago, while traveling, a man once said this to a sunburned friend of mine with great, inexplicable sincerity: “Mmmm, I could just dip you in butter. You’re my little lobster.” Equal parts awkward and oddly sweet, the phrase became an inside joke between me, my sister, and one of our friends.
But beyond the humor, there’s something endearing and symbolic about lobsters. They’re said to mate for life. To call someone your lobster is to say: you’re my person. And the idea of someone being so dear, so golden, so delicious in spirit that you’d want to dip them in butter? That’s love in its most unfiltered form: playful, tender, and a little absurd.
I love this set not just for the design, but for what it holds: affection, whimsy, memory, and the sweetness of a shared phrase that becomes part of your language with someone you love.
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Color of the Week: Francesca
With Francesca's birthday this week, it seems like the perfect time to have Francesca be the wax color of the week.
| Francesca |
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The Hastings Étui
Between now and July 7th, new collectors of the Hastings Étui will receive the Star / Memory penny alongside their Étui (doesn't combine with other vouchers). This penny is a special gift—a symbol of both guidance and remembrance.
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| The Hastings Étui |
