| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

Two of my dearest friendships began at the Inchydoney retreat last year, and ever since we repeated the same refrain: if only we lived closer. We imagine all the small, ordinary days we might share, the many cuppas, the meticulous and whimsy dinner parties, the ill-fated attempt at becoming a barbershop trio, and the long walks that would never need to be planned months ahead. This week on my birthday, two boxes arrived, one from each of them. Inside were letters and gifts chosen with exquisite care: my favorite teas, beauty products, beloved antiques, and other treasures they knew would delight me. To be so remembered, so precisely seen, astonished me. It made me realize that our distance, however inconvenient, also allows for this kind of richness.

Think of John and Abigail Adams. Their separation gave us one of the most luminous epistolary archives in American history. Had Abigail been beside John in every season of his work, the record would be barren, and she would have had fewer chances to remind him—at length—that his judgment was not always as sound as he thought. What history cherishes, and what moves us still, exists only because they endured the necessary distance. Their longing, their counsel, their domestic details, all survived because letters became the bridge.

Separation also has a way of refining speech. Conversation can be careless. I know I sometimes bend too much toward what I notice in the other person, smoothing the moment so much that I lose my own voice. Spoken words slip away. Letters are different. They ripen. We may dash them off quickly, but more often we return to them, draft and redraft, let them rest until the right words finally come. Weeks, even years, can pass before the seal is pressed. A letter teaches us to live with our thoughts long enough for them to mature. That patience is born of absence. It is the very gap between two people that allows truth to take root and bloom.

In this way, distance is not a lack but a gift. Without it, the ritual of writing would dissolve. Without the ache of absence, why take the trouble to pour words into ink, to commit to the strange faith of sending something out into an uncertain world? Letters are proof that intimacy thrives not in spite of distance but because of it.

So consider, for a moment, the spaces in your own life. A friendship grown quiet, a loved one who feels far, a part of yourself you have neglected. What would happen if you tried to bridge that distance with a letter? Not a quick message, not a text hastily thumbed out, but a slow letter, one that allows for ripening. One that allows for intimacy to rise in the gap.

Because intimacy is not only presence. It is the act of holding space for one another across silence, across miles, across time. With the right people, absence does not diminish connection, it deepens it, until even solitude feels companioned.

The Final First Editions

With only about twenty-five first-edition étuis remaining, we are nearing the close of this opening chapter. The first ninety-nine were created for those who believed in the vision of this art long before it reached a wider audience. In one hundred, two hundred, even three hundred years, the Collectors’ Register will still bear their names. It will not only mark them as the first patrons of this style of sealing and collecting, but also record the relationships that shaped me. These collectors gave me courage and inspired me to create.

Once this edition is sold out, it will take several months—at least three, perhaps longer—before the second edition is released. Every penny will be compatible across editions, so your first edition can remain your daily companion. Yet there are details unique to this first run: the engraving, the numbering, and subtle features that won't be in the 2nd edition. Beyond its place in the Register, the first edition stands as a singular and instantly recognizable piece.

The September pennies, launching on the 21st, are expected to sell quickly. To honor those who already hold an étui, collectors will receive priority access for the first day. The following day, they will open to everyone. This is the moment to secure an étui before they vanish, and well before the holidays arrive.

The Lavender Floriography Seal

The newest seal in the floriography series is one of quiet strength and calm: lavender, gathered and tied with a bow. For me, it has always been a symbol of serenity. The fragrance alone slows the breath, softens the mind, and brings a sense of ease.

Lavender’s history stretches back thousands of years. The Romans used it to perfume their baths and linens, its very name drawn from lavare, “to wash.” Medieval healers turned to lavender as a ward against plague and as a cure for restlessness.

It evokes summer fields in bloom, bees drifting from stem to stem, and the stillness that lingers at dusk. With its bow, the design recalls both a gift and a gesture of tenderness, something offered with care. This seal is for the moments when you wish to send peace with your words, to let your letters carry a breath of calm into another’s hands, AND you can even scent your envelope with lavender to match if you'd like.

With Love,