| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

There are two cherry trees in front of our house—delicate things, their blossoms just a shade pinker than the white-blushed trees further down the street. This year, they bloomed in a kind of quiet celebration, just for a day. The next morning, a storm came and shook every petal from the branches. When I stepped outside, it was as if the trees had never flowered at all—save for a soft scatter of blossoms on the pavement, like forgotten confetti after a parade.

It’s a cliché to say that spring reminds us of life, just as fall reminds us of death—but it’s the brevity that catches me. In fall, the trees take their time; the slow, smoky crumbling of leaves gives us room to brace ourselves. But spring moves faster, more urgently. It reveals life’s abundance and then just as quickly takes it away. Not cruelly, not carelessly—but simply with it's natural rhythm.

The perfectionist in me—my sharpest, most exhausting self—often wishes to control things, to rework a phrase, reblend a brushstroke, to get it just right. But nature never tries for perfection. It tries for presence. The cherry blossoms bloom and fall. The wind doesn’t check for approval. And if you weren’t paying attention—if you were inside answering emails, scrolling, or tumbling into a strangely convincing theory that Goethe’s Faust was actually a coded critique of early capitalism, and that Mephistopheles himself is a metaphor for compound interest—well, you missed it.

Down the street, two more cherry trees have begun to bloom. Their flowers are whiter, looser, more tentative. I walk past them slowly, letting myself stop. Just to look. Just to see. Each morning, I half expect them to be gone.

I’ve been thinking, too, about the connection between this fleeting beauty and the art of letter writing. There is a particular kind of courage in writing a letter—handwritten, sealed, and sent into the world with no undo button. No edits once the ink hits paper. Like petals, our words fall where they may. They are read or not read. Kept or lost. And yet they still carry the trace of the moment they bloomed. The slant of the writing, the pressure of the pen—proof that someone was alive and paying attention, if only for that hour.

In Japan, the tradition of hanami—flower viewing—treats the cherry blossom not just as a sign of spring, but as a symbol of impermanence. The idea isn’t to mourn its passing but to savor its presence, knowing it cannot stay. Letters, too, are small and sacred in their impermanence. They remind us not to hoard beauty, but to offer it. To share it while we can.

And so I try, each day, to stop and look at the trees. To write without reworking. To send things into the world without the armor of perfection. There’s a kind of liberation in that, I think. A soft, brave, necessary surrender.

Because beauty isn’t in the blossom’s permanence—it’s in the fact that it doesn’t last.

The act of sealing a letter is a quiet yet powerful declaration. It is an invitation to slow down to indulge in artistry to take part in a tradition that has linked generations. It transforms simple correspondence into something more into a message imbued with thoughtfulness and care. In a world that moves quickly there is something extraordinary about taking the time to craft a letter to seal it with wax and to send it on its way knowing it will be opened with anticipation and delight.

There is also a sense of ceremony in the process. Selecting the right paper with just the right weight and texture. Watching ink glide from a nib forming words that carry meaning beyond their letters. Choosing a wax color that complements the moment whether it be a deep crimson for passion a soft gold for warmth or an elegant ivory for timelessness. Then comes the sealing itself that brief transformative instant where wax turns molten and impression is made and what was once fluid becomes fixed in form. A lasting mark left by hand and intention.

Because beauty isn’t in permanence—it’s in the sudden burst of it. The quick, quiet applause of petals, the whisper of a wax seal cooling into place. It’s all over before you know it. Which is precisely the point.

A Seal for Those Who Prefer Their Beauty with a Side of Existentialism

This seal carries a quiet truth: beauty is brief, and that’s what makes it matter. The phrase “We bloom today, tomorrow we die” is not meant to be morbid—it’s a reminder to live fully in the moment we’re given.

Inspired by older traditions of memento mori, this seal is well-suited to letters that honor the present. A small, poetic acknowledgment that nothing lasts—and that is what makes it precious.

Color of the Week: Sakura

For Kathryn Hastings, the themes of Sakura—beauty, renewal, and ephemeral nature—can resonate deeply with her work in letter writing and wax seals. Cherry blossoms’ transient beauty reflects the joy of appreciating small, fleeting moments—much like sealing a letter or using a limited edition penny. These themes might inspire Kathryn to emphasize savoring each wax seal impression, the renewal of creativity, and the beauty of personal connections. It’s a lovely metaphor for her ethos of finding luxury in everyday life.

In Japanese folklore, the Sakura spirit, often associated with cherry blossoms, is a symbol of the fleeting nature of life. One tale tells of a spirit who, in the form of a beautiful woman, blesses the land with blossoms each spring. The legend emphasizes themes of beauty, renewal, and the ephemeral nature of existence, encouraging people to appreciate the present moment. It’s a lovely reminder to enjoy the beauty around us.

A few Cherry Blossom Poems

Cherry blossoms have long inspired Japanese poets to reflect on beauty, impermanence, and the aching tenderness of love and loss. These delicate flowers, which bloom brilliantly and fall quickly, have become a timeless metaphor for the fleeting nature of life itself. Across centuries, poets like Matsuo Bashō, Kobayashi Issa, and Izumi Shikibu have captured the essence of this moment—each from their own deeply personal vantage point.

Read these short poems slowly, like you’re watching petals drift through the air. Which one speaks to you?

Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694):
The blossoms unfailing—
my grief this unopened
pouch of poetry.

Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828):
Without you—
the cherry blossoms
just blossoms.

Izumi Shikibu (976–1030):
Come quickly—
as soon as these flowers open,
they fall.
This world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers.

Translations fromThe Penguin Book of Japanese Verseand Natalie Jabbar’s archive.

With love,

Kathryn