| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

Walking through New York feels like walking through history—not just in the sense of architecture and centuries-old buildings, but in a personal way. Each time I walk its streets, I feel the layers of my own life folding over one another. The city changes, and so do I. It is always vibrant, always new, yet it carries its history—an inheritance of moments and memory—just as I carry mine.

Last week, I had a marvelous time in New York. To me, it’s a city that always feels historic and yet entirely in the moment. It’s as if New York is forever deciding who it is, revealing itself to its visitors, only to change identities again and again. There’s something constant about its energy, and yet always something fresh.

Walking along Fifth Avenue, I was reminded of my grandmother Neenie, who first brought me to New York City when I was ten.

It was magical—not just because New York sparkles on its own, but because Neenie knew me. At ten, I was deep in my magic phase, performing tricks for dinner guests in a hand-sewn costume with all the drama of a Vegas headliner. For Famous Person Day, while others came as Florence Nightingale or George Washington, I arrived as Harry Houdini. Obviously. I was even taking sleight-of-hand lessons from a man who gave private magic instruction out of his sex shop near the casinos. Totally above board. I think. I do recall an alarming number of bubble wrap bikinis though.

Neenie—likely unaware of the exact nature of my training, but eager to support my magical ambitions—brought me to New York just to see David Copperfield. Much of our visit was tailored to what I loved, but she also showed me beautiful things from her own life, her own time living in Greenwich Village.

We stayed in a hotel that felt impossibly chic. In my memory, it’s the late ’90s distilled: everything was vivid white—duvets, robes, possibly even the lighting—with a single red rose in every room, like someone had staged a perfume ad and then quietly left.

It was there that Neenie introduced me to French food—and lobster. Naturally, I ordered lobster bisque and lobster tail, unaware that French dining is not meant to be treated like an Olympic speed-eating event. I inhaled the bisque like I was in a timed challenge, then made it approximately three forkfuls into the entrée before I turned ghostly pale and whispered, dramatically, that I didn’t feel well.

Neenie, who had taken maybe two polite bites of her own meal, calmly flagged down the waiter, who whisked away her plate to keep it warm, while she bundled me up and walked me through the frigid streets of Manhattan until I felt better.

It was Christmastime. The city was glittering and absolutely freezing. Once I recovered, we returned to the restaurant and Neenie resumed her meal—like tending to her overly dramatic, bisque-intoxicated grandchild had simply been a brief intermission. I still think about that moment—her calm, her care, and her enduring patience with a child who thought lobster was finger food and soup was a sprint.

Years later, I walked those same streets with friends, visiting museums and galleries. Now I return with new eyes, new layers of myself. And still, that same sense of vibrancy pulses through the city.

On this most recent trip, I went to the opening of Printemps, a new luxury department store. Fashionistas and influencers lined up outside, waiting to be let in. Inside, the design details made me swoon—marble trim in pink-striped dressing rooms, a café ceiling sewn from real fabric like a circus tent, hand-embroidered dresses, and thoughtfully displayed pieces curated like an art gallery. It all felt so now.

But that’s the magic of New York—it’s always now. It’s current. Youthful. Grungy and elegant at once. And still, it’s deeply historic. You’ll find new clothes behind old storefronts and old buildings hiding sleek renovations. There’s always something interesting around every corner.

To me, New York is a masterclass in stewardship. It doesn’t preserve its history in a sterile, glass-box kind of way—it lives it. It honors the past by integrating it into the present. It evolves.

I’ve thought a lot about stewardship, especially since my grandmother died. When she passed, her apartment in San Francisco became a kind of mausoleum. Everything was frozen in the moment she died. My uncle wouldn’t allow a single thing to be moved.

I understand the impulse—grief makes us want to hold on. But to keep things unchanged forever is not the energy of life. That is the energy of death.

I’ve thought a lot about stewardship, especially since my grandmother died. When she passed, her apartment in San Francisco became a kind of mausoleum. Everything was frozen in the moment she died. My uncle wouldn’t allow a single thing to be moved. I understand the impulse—grief makes us want to hold on. But to keep things unchanged forever is not the energy of life. That is the energy of death.

Neenie's apartment, while she was alive, was a dream. She had an eye for antiques and beauty. But nothing was too precious to be used. The kitchen was alive with activity. Every space was elegant, yes, but lived in. After she passed, it became quiet, static, sterile.

Now, in my own jewel-box house in Seattle, many of her pieces live again. We’ve revived that sense of life. Yes, we try to teach the children not to jump on the couch or color on the oil paintings—but our home isn’t ruled by anxiety. It’s full of living.

Walking on Fifth Avenue, I thought again of that first trip with Neenie—how much walking we did. I can’t recall every block, but I remember the feeling.

Now I walk the same avenue—my legs fresh, my memories deep—and I imagine one day walking it with my children and grandchildren. Inheritance, in that moment, is not just what’s passed down. It’s what we walk into together.

It’s a feeling I know well, especially as an antique collector. I think about this constantly: how we interact with history, how we carry it forward, how we become part of the inheritance ourselves. I’ve always been the kind of collector who believes that objects should be used. Seals weren’t created as decorative items—they were functional.

Many of my favorite seals come from the Palais Royal in Paris. They’re stunning. But they were never made for us. Their creators were designing for their own time, drawing from engraving traditions already centuries old. They weren’t thinking of the future—they were just living in their present.

These objects are both beautiful and fragile. They deserve to be used properly, (which—by the way—I teach in a free course on how to use antique wax seals if you’re curious). But that’s also why I created the Hastings Étui. It’s a modern heirloom—and part of an inheritance we’re shaping together, through the simple, enduring act of letter writing.

The Hastings Étui is rooted in the present, but it lives across time. It’s a way of transcending eras through the simple, powerful act of letter writing. It connects us to the people we love now—and to those we’ll never meet, who may one day hold the same seals, read the same words, feel the same care in the wax.

To be a steward isn’t just to protect something—it’s to engage with it, to enjoy it, and to allow it to grow a life of its own. When we write letters, we’re not just continuing a tradition; we’re actively shaping it. We’re not preserving a relic—we’re participating in a living ritual.

Inheritance, to me, is about honoring the past, embracing the richness of the moment, and thoughtfully shaping the future. It’s about living fully with the objects and practices we love, and caring for them in a way that ensures they will outlive us—not untouched, but enriched.

In the end, inheritance is not just what we’re given—it’s what we choose to bring forward, enliven, and leave more beautiful than we found it.

Seal of the Week: "Le Temps Nous Unita"

This week’s featured seal is a poetic meditation on time and connection. It depicts an hourglass with wings—time in flight—and bears the French inscription “Le temps nous unita” ("Time unites us").

It’s a beautiful reminder that while time often feels fleeting, it also holds the power to bind us—across distance, across generations, and across the quiet spaces between letters. Whether it’s a moment shared, a memory passed down, or a note sent by post, this seal honors the invisible thread that time uses to weave us together.

Color of the Week: Petit Roi

The light and airy pastel hue of Petit Roi Sealing Wax is reminiscent of a spring morning, evoking a feeling of freshness and new beginnings. The color carries with it a sense of innocence and purity, making it the perfect choice for christening invitations, birth announcements, or any occasion that celebrates new life and renewal.

This color was my favorite color when I was about 13 and it is still one of the formative Kathryn Hastings waxes.

With love,

Kathryn