| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

I never believed I was a dancer.

At three years old, I took lessons, but as soon as boredom set in, I quit. The identity of dancer never felt like mine to claim. And yet—movement, rhythm, expression, the sheer emotional weight of it—is something we all experience, whether we name it or not.

Years later, a handwriting analyst, Elaine Charal, came on the 1 Sealed Letter podcast, and told me something that surprised me. In the way I wrote—my K’s and R’s crossing their vertical lines—she saw what’s called a dancer’s stroke. A mark of people who are remembered. A trait of artists and, yes, dancers alike.

Elaine believes handwriting is a reflection of the subconscious, a mirror of who we are in that exact moment. More than that, she insists that by changing our handwriting, we can change our lives. Most people dislike their script, she said, but if they understood what it revealed, they might see it differently—less as a flaw, more as an imprint of the self.

And then, she told me something that has stayed with me ever since: handwriting isn’t about the hand. It’s about the brain.

A line of ink doesn’t start at the fingers or the wrist—it begins deep within, traveling through the arm, the shoulder, the body engaged in an act of expression. It is movement, not control. In fact, she told me, perfectionism in penmanship is often an indicator of repression. The more we try to constrain it, the more we silence something instinctive, something alive.

At the time, I had never thought of myself as a dancer. But here, in the curves of my own script, was evidence of movement. Of rhythm. Of something uncontainable.

And I think of echopraxia—the involuntary repetition of another’s movements. It is an instinct so deep that we mirror before we even think. A child swaying unconsciously while watching ballet. The way we adopt the gestures of those we love. The way handwriting, like dance, is passed down—our script shaped by the loops of our teachers, the scrawl of our parents, the eras we live through.

Isn’t that what art is, in a way? An act of echopraxia. A continuation of gestures that came before us, transformed through our own hands.

I think of Pina Bausch, the choreographer who never asked her dancers to be merely beautiful. She wanted rawness. She wanted truth. Her dancers didn’t just move—they threw themselves into movement, into space, into trust.

There is one dance of hers I will never forget: a woman falls forward, face-first, arms at her sides. She doesn’t brace herself. For a breathless second, she is in freefall, the ground rushing up to meet her. And then—just before impact—she is caught.

The sheer trust of that moment. The willingness to leap without certainty of being held.

And I realize—this is what letter writing should be.

A letter is not just a polite exchange of words. It is an offering. An act of trust. It is bold in its authenticity, daring in its intimacy. Like dance, it requires a leap. A willingness to say: Here I am. This is what I feel. This is what I want you to know.

To write with honesty is to allow yourself to be seen. The same boldness that drives a dancer to move exists in writing—the willingness to be unguarded, to trust that we will be caught.

Maybe dance and handwriting aren’t separate at all. They are different expressions of the same impulse—to move, to communicate, to be understood. Both demand an awareness of space—whether it’s the physical stage or the blank page waiting to be filled. And both, in the end, are about connection.

For years, I thought I wasn’t a dancer. But maybe I am, in the way I create, in the way I move through the world.

Maybe we all are.

So what if we embraced that movement? What if we let ourselves write boldly, not just neatly? What if we danced—not for performance, but for the sheer joy of feeling?

What if we allowed ourselves to be fully seen?

Whether in ink or in motion, we are always leaving traces of ourselves behind. Perhaps that is what it means to be alive.

Script as a Dance - Favorite Tools

There is nothing more fun than writing with beautiful dip pens. These are custom made for me, and they're what I use for my own letters.

​These glass dip pens are handblown by a man in Bavarian, and the wooden one was hand carved by an artist in Ukraine. (I commissioned 8 of them to help support them during these difficult times).

Seal of the Week: The Heart That can Feel Another

This seal embodies the quiet yet profound act of extending beyond oneself. To sense another’s presence, to reach without knowing if we will be met, requires a rare kind of courage—the same trust that carries a dancer mid-leap or a writer laying their truth on the page. Movement, whether of the body, the pen, or the heart, is never solitary. It is an offering, a gesture that says: I see you. I feel you. I trust you will meet me here.

Color of the Week: Venetian Carnival

It's officially Carnival in Venice, and what better way to celebrate than with a wax inspired by its rich, theatrical history?​

Venetian Carnival began as an escape—a chance to step beyond the constraints of society. Masks granted anonymity, dissolving class divisions and inviting revelry before the solemnity of Lent. Over time, it became more than just a festival; it evolved into a spectacle of artistry, indulgence, and transformation, reinforcing Venice’s identity as a city of beauty, mystery, and freedom.

​This sealing wax, a vivid purple, draws from the regal costumes that sweep through Venice during Carnival—opulent, dramatic, and steeped in tradition. Like the masks that once concealed and liberated, this wax invites you to embrace both mystery and expression in your letters, sealing each message with the spirit of Venice itself.

Change your Handwriting; Change your life

​When Elaine Charal joined the 1 Sealed Letter podcast, she shared fascinating insights into the hidden language of handwriting. She taught me to pay attention to couple elements in a person’s script:

• Slant – A forward slant suggests someone who reaches out emotionally, a vertical slant indicates neither reaching out or resistance, and a leftward slant can signal resistance or guarded energy.
• Signature – Does it match the rest of the script? A signature is how we present ourselves to the world, but when it differs from our handwriting, it can reveal a gap between how we see ourselves and how we wish to be perceived.

I also learned that handwriting isn’t just a reflection of who we are—it can shape who we become. To shift my own patterns, Elaine encouraged me to:

• Follow through on the loops of my y’s and g’s to strengthen my ability to follow through in life.
• Underline my signature to build self-reliance, reinforcing confidence and personal authority. (Has anyone noticed me finally starting to underline my name in your orders).

Handwriting, like movement, is both instinctual and intentional—a reflection of our inner world and a tool for transformation.

At three years old, I took lessons, but as soon as boredom set in, I quit. The identity of dancer never felt like mine to claim. And yet—movement, rhythm, expression, the sheer emotional weight of it—is something we all experience, whether we name it or not.

Years later, a handwriting analyst, Elaine Charal, came on the 1 Sealed Letter podcast, and told me something that surprised me. In the way I wrote—my K’s and R’s crossing their vertical lines—she saw what’s called a dancer’s stroke. A mark of people who are remembered. A trait of artists and, yes, dancers alike.

Elaine believes handwriting is a reflection of the subconscious, a mirror of who we are in that exact moment. More than that, she insists that by changing our handwriting, we can change our lives. Most people dislike their script, she said, but if they understood what it revealed, they might see it differently—less as a flaw, more as an imprint of the self.

And then, she told me something that has stayed with me ever since: handwriting isn’t about the hand. It’s about the brain.

A line of ink doesn’t start at the fingers or the wrist—it begins deep within, traveling through the arm, the shoulder, the body engaged in an act of expression. It is movement, not control. In fact, she told me, perfectionism in penmanship is often an indicator of repression. The more we try to constrain it, the more we silence something instinctive, something alive.

At the time, I had never thought of myself as a dancer. But here, in the curves of my own script, was evidence of movement. Of rhythm. Of something uncontainable.

And I think of echopraxia—the involuntary repetition of another’s movements. It is an instinct so deep that we mirror before we even think. A child swaying unconsciously while watching ballet. The way we adopt the gestures of those we love. The way handwriting, like dance, is passed down—our script shaped by the loops of our teachers, the scrawl of our parents, the eras we live through.

Isn’t that what art is, in a way? An act of echopraxia. A continuation of gestures that came before us, transformed through our own hands.

I think of Pina Bausch, the choreographer who never asked her dancers to be merely beautiful. She wanted rawness. She wanted truth. Her dancers didn’t just move—they threw themselves into movement, into space, into trust.

There is one dance of hers I will never forget: a woman falls forward, face-first, arms at her sides. She doesn’t brace herself. For a breathless second, she is in freefall, the ground rushing up to meet her. And then—just before impact—she is caught.

The sheer trust of that moment. The willingness to leap without certainty of being held.

And I realize—this is what letter writing should be.

A letter is not just a polite exchange of words. It is an offering. An act of trust. It is bold in its authenticity, daring in its intimacy. Like dance, it requires a leap. A willingness to say: Here I am. This is what I feel. This is what I want you to know.

To write with honesty is to allow yourself to be seen. The same boldness that drives a dancer to move exists in writing—the willingness to be unguarded, to trust that we will be caught.

Maybe dance and handwriting aren’t separate at all. They are different expressions of the same impulse—to move, to communicate, to be understood. Both demand an awareness of space—whether it’s the physical stage or the blank page waiting to be filled. And both, in the end, are about connection.

For years, I thought I wasn’t a dancer. But maybe I am, in the way I create, in the way I move through the world.

Maybe we all are.

So what if we embraced that movement? What if we let ourselves write boldly, not just neatly? What if we danced—not for performance, but for the sheer joy of feeling?

What if we allowed ourselves to be fully seen?

Whether in ink or in motion, we are always leaving traces of ourselves behind. Perhaps that is what it means to be alive.

Script as a Dance - Favorite Tools

There is nothing more fun than writing with beautiful dip pens. These are custom made for me, and they're what I use for my own letters.

​These glass dip pens are handblown by a man in Bavarian, and the wooden one was hand carved by an artist in Ukraine. (I commissioned 8 of them to help support them during these difficult times).

Seal of the Week: The Heart That can Feel Another

This seal embodies the quiet yet profound act of extending beyond oneself. To sense another’s presence, to reach without knowing if we will be met, requires a rare kind of courage—the same trust that carries a dancer mid-leap or a writer laying their truth on the page. Movement, whether of the body, the pen, or the heart, is never solitary. It is an offering, a gesture that says: I see you. I feel you. I trust you will meet me here.

Color of the Week: Venetian Carnival

It's officially Carnival in Venice, and what better way to celebrate than with a wax inspired by its rich, theatrical history?​

Venetian Carnival began as an escape—a chance to step beyond the constraints of society. Masks granted anonymity, dissolving class divisions and inviting revelry before the solemnity of Lent. Over time, it became more than just a festival; it evolved into a spectacle of artistry, indulgence, and transformation, reinforcing Venice’s identity as a city of beauty, mystery, and freedom.

​This sealing wax, a vivid purple, draws from the regal costumes that sweep through Venice during Carnival—opulent, dramatic, and steeped in tradition. Like the masks that once concealed and liberated, this wax invites you to embrace both mystery and expression in your letters, sealing each message with the spirit of Venice itself.

Change your Handwriting; Change your life

​When Elaine Charal joined the 1 Sealed Letter podcast, she shared fascinating insights into the hidden language of handwriting. She taught me to pay attention to couple elements in a person’s script:

• Slant – A forward slant suggests someone who reaches out emotionally, a vertical slant indicates neither reaching out or resistance, and a leftward slant can signal resistance or guarded energy.
• Signature – Does it match the rest of the script? A signature is how we present ourselves to the world, but when it differs from our handwriting, it can reveal a gap between how we see ourselves and how we wish to be perceived.

I also learned that handwriting isn’t just a reflection of who we are—it can shape who we become. To shift my own patterns, Elaine encouraged me to:

• Follow through on the loops of my y’s and g’s to strengthen my ability to follow through in life.
• Underline my signature to build self-reliance, reinforcing confidence and personal authority. (Has anyone noticed me finally starting to underline my name in your orders).

Handwriting, like movement, is both instinctual and intentional—a reflection of our inner world and a tool for transformation.