| THE EPISTOLARIAN |
When I was a kid, I’d spend weeks at a time with my grandparents in Santa Barbara. In their backyard stood a handful of large orange trees, heavy with fruit. Every morning, it was my job to gather the fallen oranges from the ground so we could make juice for breakfast. My grandfather, shaped by a Depression-era ethic, insisted we use only the oranges that had already fallen. “No sense letting them go to waste,” he’d say, as I turned over the chalky green ones on the damp earth, scanning for rattlesnakes and trying to find the fruit that had fallen most recently.
The juice was always fresh—but never fresh fresh. We never tasted the brightest fruit from the tree, the ones that could be picked with hardly a pluck. The best was right there, just above our heads, but we left it, morning after mourning, because something slightly bruised had already fallen and “needed” to be used up.
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At first glance, this might seem practical. But it wasn’t. Not really. The trees were prolific. There were always more oranges falling. We never got through the ground fruit to reach the ones still shining above. The system created a kind of purgatory: good enough, forever. Always drinking the nearly-wasted version of something that could have been extraordinary.
My grandfather managed his wine cellar the same way. He insisted on drinking the oldest, most suspect bottles first, the ones already beginning to turn, while leaving the good vintages untouched. Year after year, the best wine aged. Then spoiled. By the time anyone reached for those bottles, they had turned to vinegar too.
There’s a kind of moral trap in always choosing what “shouldn’t go to waste.” It feels virtuous. Responsible. But sometimes, it keeps us circling just beneath the life we’re meant to live. There’s no real nobility in saving what’s already going bad if it means never tasting what’s good.
And yet, life isn’t made only of oranges and wine. Some things replenish—like fruit, or affection, or even money. But others don’t. You can eat well, drink well, live richly—but not everything you spend can be regained. The art is in knowing which is which.
People often ask, with a tone of mock-wisdom: What would you do if you knew you were dying tomorrow? As if a good life can be reverse-engineered from its final twenty-four hours.
If it really were my last day, I might water or snow ski in Tahoe with my family. I’d eat extravagantly, drink too much champagne, and stay up until the end. But if I’m honest, that’s not the life I’d want to live on repeat. That’s a curtain call, not a philosophy.
When I ask instead: What kind of life would I be proud to have lived? What does it mean to live from my highest goodness? The answer shifts. It’s subtler. I’d write. I’d work. I’d observe the world with the curiosity of a tourist. I’d hold my love ones, not in goodbye but in the gratitude of now.
And I’d choose the best orange.
Not necessarily because time is running out,
but because too many days are spent drinking juice made from what’s fallen.
It can sound noble, this practice of reaching only for what’s already on the ground. But over time, it becomes its own form of forgetting.
Choosing the best orange isn’t indulgence. It isn’t the champagne toast at the end. It’s presence. It’s discernment. It's a small act of self love.
A quiet declaration that you are here,
and worthy of the best—
oranges and all.
The Orange by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
Seal of the Week: Sunflower & Poppy
On this month's full moon, I’m releasing a new penny for the Hastings Étui. One side bears a skull, the other a sun. (A preview will be shared Monday, June 23). In the lead-up, I’ve been thinking about the quiet dualities that shape a life—the tension between light and dark, vitality and rest... life and death.
With this theme, I launched two new seals in the floriography collection: the Poppy and the Sunflower. These are larger highly detailed seals, that are actually a wonderful complement to the upcoming penny.
The sunflower turns its face to the light, bold and unwavering. It speaks the language of confidence, clarity, and joy. The poppy, in contrast, belongs to the realm of dreams. It leans toward sleep, softness, surrender. Taken together, they offer a quiet question: How do we spend our days? When do we rise to meet the sun, and when do we let ourselves drift into the dream?
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I’ve never met a truly joyful person who couldn’t also hold space for sorrow. That’s why the sun and the skull belong together. The sunflower and the poppy. Joy and grief. Day and night. Life and death. They’re not opposites; they’re partners in the greater dance.
To live richly isn’t about maximizing pleasure. It’s about being present enough to feel everything.
Letters are like this, too. They catch something fleeting, mark it with a postmark, and release it into the unknown. They are beautiful, and also, in their way, small rehearsals for loss.
| Sunflower Seal |
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When my daughter was born, I felt an unexpected wave of grief. Nothing was wrong. It was simply the quiet understanding that her beginning already contained her ending. Not tragically, but inevitably. That realization didn’t diminish the joy; it deepened all feelings. To be alive is to know that we will, at some point, no longer be. And to love someone is to hold, however gently, the knowledge that their presence, like ours, is temporary.
It’s the same awareness that shadows joy in other forms. I’ve long noticed how we don’t fear sleep. We welcome it, even long for it. We trust it to carry us. But we fear death, perhaps because it feels unscripted, irrevocable. Still, I wonder if the distance between them is as vast as we imagine. Both require surrender. Both ask us to loosen our grip.
Perhaps death knows something life forgets. Just as the poppy knows what the sunflower doesn’t. And the two, in quiet dialogue, remind us that a full life must hold both radiance and rest.
| Poppy Seal |
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Color of the Week: Champagne
This week’s color is a soft, luminous gold: elegant, understated, and quietly celebratory. Earlier in this Epistolarian, I mentioned that I wouldn’t drink champagne every day. But sealing letters with it? That’s another story entirely.
| Champagne Wax Bundle |
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| Champagne Sealing Wax Bundle |
Hastings Penny Collection:
