| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

I was in high school when a spinal tap left a small hole in my spine, one that came with consequences I could never have anticipated. Whenever I sat up, my cerebral spinal fluid would begin to drain, leaving my brain unsupported, pressed directly against my skull. The result was an excruciating headache—one that would last for hours, slowly easing only after I lay down, giving my body time to replenish the lost fluid.

For a month, my doctor prescribed rest. No work, no activities—just stillness. Lying horizontal was the only way to avoid pain. I followed his advice, but there was a strangeness in being so idle for so long. It wasn’t just the discomfort of my body—it was the discomfort of doing nothing. Soon, my family began to grow restless on my behalf.

My father, especially, had a hard time accepting this prolonged stillness. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe I was in pain—he just couldn’t fathom that a person, even in recovery, couldn’t find some way to be productive. For him, inactivity seemed like wasted time. About two weeks into my recovery, he came home with a loaner car—a stick shift—and suggested I use the opportunity to learn to drive manual.

I was skeptical. I still felt fragile, but I wanted to meet the unspoken expectation that I shouldn’t be completely idle. After all, my dad saw this as a chance for me to learn something new, to make the best of my time. But the moment I sat upright in the driver’s seat, my body rebelled. Two minutes in, I felt the familiar, crushing pain as my cerebral spinal fluid drained. My brain pressed against my skull, and I cried out, overwhelmed. My father misunderstood my reaction as frustration with learning to drive stick and tried to reassure me, but it wasn’t frustration. It was my body demanding rest.

Eventually, I underwent a blood patch procedure to seal the hole in my spine, and within minutes, the headaches disappeared. I could sit upright again and resume my life. But that experience left me with a profound realization: even when rest is essential, there’s a cultural pressure to remain productive. My father’s well-meaning suggestion wasn’t just a quirk of his personality; it reflected something deeply ingrained—a belief that rest, especially extended rest, is inherently suspect.

This belief has ancient roots. For centuries, laziness has been framed as a moral failing. During the Protestant Reformation, hard work was tied to virtue, and idleness to sin. The Industrial Revolution reinforced the idea that productivity was the ultimate measure of worth. Even now, in a world where survival no longer requires constant labor, we’re taught that rest must be earned—that time spent idle is time wasted.

But I’ve come to see how misguided that view is. What we often label as laziness can be something much deeper—exhaustion, burnout, or simply a need for stillness that society doesn’t acknowledge. During my recovery, my body demanded rest, but I still felt a nagging guilt for not being “useful.” It took years for me to untangle that guilt, to realize that rest is not indulgent or unworthy—it’s necessary.

Art became my way of reclaiming rest. In creating, I found a space where stillness wasn’t just allowed—it was essential. When I’m making art, I’m not focused on output or achievement. I’m engaging with the world in a slower, more deliberate way. In that space, rest becomes a form of connection—an opportunity to listen to myself, to my surroundings, to the act of creation. It’s a reminder that rest and creativity are intertwined, that they feed each other.

Ironically, art demands the kind of stillness our culture doesn’t often value. We celebrate the finished product but overlook the quiet time that went into its creation. But for me, the process—the slowness, the rest, the reflection—is the most sacred part.

And yet, there are times when even after rest, we still feel lazy. Maybe that feeling signals something else—a lack of inspiration or a sense of obligation to something that doesn’t resonate with us. When we label ourselves as lazy, we often overlook the real questions: What are we avoiding? What do we need? Do we REALLY need to do that?

So the next time you feel lazy, ask yourself are you lazy or...

Are you Tired?

Are you uninspired by the task at hand?

Do you simply need help?

And don’t forget to carve out time for something creative each day, even if it’s just five minutes. It’s a kind of medicine, that will change your life for the better.

Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Seal of the Week: Good Night All's Well

This week, as we focus on rest, I’m reminded of a favorite wax seal in my collection—an elegant design featuring musical notes and the phrase “Good Night, All’s Well.” Much like the final notes of a lullaby, this seal symbolizes the quiet reassurance that comes with the end of the day, when all is in harmony. It serves as a reminder to embrace the stillness, to let go, and trust that everything is well, inviting us to find solace in rest.

Color of the Week: Mercury

Inspired by the mythical messenger god, Mercury (or Hermes), this mustard-colored wax encapsulates the heritage of traditional letter writing, bringing forth an aura of eloquence, symbolism, and unrivaled sophistication.

Hermes, in Greek mythology, was not only the messenger of the gods but also the patron deity of commerce, trade, and negotiation. His association with trade stems from his role as a divine intermediary, facilitating communication and exchanges between mortals and gods. This connection between Hermes and trade holds profound implications for the realm of communication.

As the god of trade, Hermes was believed to oversee the smooth flow of information, ideas, and goods between individuals and communities. He embodied the art of negotiation, persuasion, and eloquence, enabling successful transactions and fostering harmonious relationships. In this context, communication played a pivotal role in establishing trust, resolving conflicts, and building connections—a vital component of any thriving trade network.

With love,

Kay