| THE EPISTOLARIAN |
I grew up in Lake Tahoe, where the landscape felt less like a backdrop and more like a part of me—ensouled in the snow-capped peaks, the endless blue sky, the crystalline water, and the black star-speckled nights. But above all, there was Heavenly, my home ski mountain. Floating on powder through the trees or rhythmically swishing down mogul runs, I felt weightless, at ease. It’s hard to talk about it without sounding like Scarlett O’Hara wistfully longing for Tara—dramatic, nostalgic, and entirely sincere. And yet, there’s no escaping the fact that my mountain was, unironically, called Heavenly. Because, in every sense, it was.
Tahoe gave me deep, enduring friendships, but the broader culture often left me restless. Intellectual curiosity—especially in women—was not exactly nurtured in my public school. The town revolved around the physical. I loved adventure, but I longed for something more—a space where the inner and outer worlds were valued equally.
Since Tahoe lacked much in the way of indoor community spaces, the annual Rotary St. Patrick’s Day wine tasting and auction was one of the few events that gathered people together. It wasn’t really about Irish heritage—more an excuse to break up the long winter, to dance, to shake off the cabin fever. For years, I called it the "Corned Beef Festival"—partly because I was too young to drink or bid, but mostly because the main event (in my eyes) was the endless carving station of corned beef.
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When I decided to lead a retreat in Ireland, I felt like a bit of an imposter. Most of the Irish things I loved were really Irish-American. Sure, I listened to The Chieftains and U2's The Joshua Tree, but let’s be honest—neither had been topping the charts since people were still saving files on floppy disks. And my beloved corned beef? Not Irish at all—just the result of Irish and Jewish immigrants in New York making the best of cheap brisket and a shared love of salt.
Leading up to the retreat, I had seen the online discourse—some young Irish people bristling at Americans who proudly claim Irishness after one DNA test and a Guinness. Others expressed a sharper, more complicated bitterness—oh, you got a parade and some sentimental poetry? We got centuries of economic hardship and a lingering national trauma. I knew better than to bring up my own so-called heritage, especially since my last known Irish ancestor suspiciously left right around the time the wolves did—coincidence, or were they in on it? "Ehh, he’s a service animal..."
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But to my surprise, when I arrived, the locals asked. On our first ride with our driver James, he asked each of us about our connection to Ireland. Most people we met wanted to know about any connection, however distant. It wasn’t about proving identity; it was about acknowledging even the smallest thread of shared history. I didn’t “fit in” exactly, but I felt something quieter, perhaps more meaningful: a sense of belonging.
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For a week, we gathered at Inchydoney Beach for the retreat. Most attendees were from the U.S., though each of us carried vastly different backgrounds. And yet, from the very first morning, something happened. As we sat together making wax seals, conversation flowed effortlessly, laughter came easily. We all commented on how familiar it felt, how strange and natural it was to be there, together.
The distance between who I was and where I was had closed, and though I felt supported by Ireland—her steady green landscapes, her tranquil seas—I was reminded that belonging isn’t about bloodlines or birthplace. It’s about recognition, about the spaces that welcome us, about the feeling of being seen. In Ireland, I wasn’t claiming a heritage; I was simply existing within a moment of connection, as natural and effortless as floating through the trees at Heavenly.
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Seal of the Week: Harps
The harp, deeply rooted in Irish culture, extends beyond its musical legacy to symbolize harmony in relationships. Each string, when plucked, produces a singular note—beautiful on its own but limited. True harmony emerges only when the notes are in agreement, aligning in tone and rhythm to create something richer, more resonant.
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This mirrors human connection. Relationships, like music, require alignment—without it, harmony is impossible. This truth is elegantly expressed in an antique harp wax seal bearing the inscription "Pas d'harmonie sans accord"—“There is no harmony without agreement.” It’s a striking reminder that connection is not just about proximity, but about resonance.
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Another seal carries the phrase "Je réponds à la touche"—“I respond to the touch.” This captures an equally essential aspect of harmony: responsiveness. Just as a harp vibrates in answer to the player’s fingers, meaningful relationships flourish when we are attuned to each other’s needs and emotions. Harmony isn’t passive—it’s an ongoing exchange, a willingness to engage, to adjust, to listen.
This week’s seal invites you to reflect on the nature of harmony—not just in music, but in the way we navigate our most important relationships.
Wax Color of the Week: Hibernia
This exquisite sealing wax, in a delicate light green hue, draws inspiration from Ireland’s lush shores and the shimmering waters that surround the Emerald Isle. A tribute to the country's ancient maritime heritage, its color evokes the rolling waves of the Celtic Sea and the vast Atlantic, which have shaped Ireland’s coastline for millennia.
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Love, Longing and Letter: Khalil Gibran's Correspondence
This week on the 1 Sealed Letter Podcast, What can love letters reveal about a poet’s heart? In this episode, we explore the deeply personal and poetic correspondence of Kahlil Gibran, the celebrated author of The Prophet. Through his letters to two extraordinary women—Mary Haskell, his devoted confidante and literary patron, and May Ziadah, a fellow writer and kindred spirit—Gibran expressed his deepest emotions, intellectual musings, and artistic visions.
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Mark Your Calendar: 4/4
Make sure to sign up for the Silver Wax Seal Course so you can join (or receive the recording of) the special live zoom training I'm leading on April 4th and 3pm Pacific (6pm Eastern). I'll be showing additional techniques and leading a live Q&A. Those who are enrolled will receive the zoom info in the first week of April.
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The Letter That Changed Everything
History is shaped by letters—small, deliberate acts of communication that alter the course of events. Take, for example, a simple typed letter sent to President John F. Kennedy in 1962 by an Irish priest, Father Patrick Peyton. In it, he urged Kennedy to visit Ireland, reminding him of the deep bond between the Irish people and their far-flung American kin. That letter set in motion a historic visit in 1963—one that reignited national pride, strengthened ties between Ireland and the U.S., and gave the Irish diaspora a long-awaited sense of homecoming.
The typed letter sent to President John F. Kennedy in 1962 from Father Patrick Peyton:
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