| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

This Wednesday, I’m releasing a new penny for the Hastings Étui: a memento mori. It’s the first of its kind in my collection—and perhaps, in a small way, the first of its kind in history. A wax seal with a deliberate, symbolic pairing: on one side, a skull inscribed with Es fui, sum eris ("As I was, so you will be"); on the reverse, a radiant sun and the words Nothing Without Thee.

This juxtaposition is intentional. Death, and the inevitability of it, faces us plainly—yet so does the warmth of love, purpose, and the life we’re called to live fully because it will end. The seal holds both truths in balance: the reminder that we will die, and the even more urgent reminder to love what’s here while we can.

I initially planned to make just fifty. But as more Étuis have found their way into the world, it became clear we’d need more. The final count is one hundred: one for me, two for the museum collection, and ninety-seven for collectors.

I imagine they’ll go quickly.

The first fifty are reserved exclusively for current owners of the Hastings Étui—those already fluent in the language of this work. The remaining fifty will be released to the public at the end of the month.

Once this edition sells out, it will not return. Future designs may revisit the theme of memento mori, but never in this exact form. That matters. The smallest details—the angle of a skull, the phrasing of the inscription, even the curve of a border—become timestamps. Years from now, collectors will be able to identify which penny came from which moment. That’s part of the magic.

I want the early collectors to feel the pride of having seen this vision before it became something widely known. And I want future collectors to enjoy the thrill of discovering a rare penny from the summer of 2025—an artifact from the beginning.

On Remembering to Die

For millennia, memento mori was not morbid. It was clarifying—a devotional reminder to live meaningfully while we can. Only in more recent centuries has it been misunderstood, softened by euphemism or shrouded in fear. When I first introduced the concept in my work, a few people recoiled. They thought it grim, even occult. But I’ve always seen it as a kind of truth serum.

Like most people, I know—intellectually—that I will die. And still, the emotional weight of that truth slips through my fingers. I do what I can to stretch this life: a blend of Western medicine, Ayurveda, acupuncture, and a devout belief in long walks, staying hydrated, and early bedtimes. I hope to live to be very old—and I believe I will. Part of me has always felt like an old woman touristing in a younger body.

But I also know this: if death is coming for me, it is also shaping me. It lends gravity to the ordinary. It reminds me to pour attention like rays of sun over the people I love. To seal a letter. To try something ridiculous and sublime (Nerds Gummy Clusters with Brie—don’t knock it until you’ve questioned all your life choices). To make a thing worth keeping.

American culture, for all its forward-thinking, tends to hide from death. We wrap our food in plastic, far removed from the animals it came from, and we cloak dying in softened language—passing, transitioning, slipping away. It’s as if there’s an unspoken belief that death is a light switch: one moment on, the next, simply off. But even the laws of thermodynamics and physics tell a different story—energy and mass cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed from one form to another.

I come back to Whitman:

We count ourselves lucky to be alive, but rarely consider that the full cycle—birth, life, death—might be the real blessing. In Why We Sleep, neuroscientist Matthew Walker suggests the stranger question isn’t why we sleep, but why we ever wake. Sleep, he argues, is the default state—the body’s repair shop. That made me wonder: what if non-life is the natural baseline, and life the miraculous interruption? Why do we die, yes—but also, why do we ever get to live at all?

Coming out of anesthesia after a routine colonoscopy this week, I was washed in an unexpected wave of peace and love—so complete I felt it life's natural state. It felt like I was on drugs, because, well… I was. But maybe also a sneak preview of what it’s like to slip out of the mind's and body's constant chatter. It made me wonder: is it death we fear, or just the unfinished life we’d leave behind? The heartbreak of our absence in lives that still go on?

As a wife and mother of two young children, I can’t bear the thought of not being here—not just to manage the rhythms of home (though I would hate to place that burden on my husband and family), but because I am their sun and they are mine. Quiet, steady, illuminating. Nothing Without Thee—the words etched on the radiant side of the new penny feels like a lived truth. The love I offer them is life-giving. And their love, in return, completes the cycle.

I think of Edna St. Vincent Millay:

There is no good time to go. Even a thousand years wouldn’t be enough with my husband, Rob. That unbearable longing—for just a little more time—is what makes life so exquisite. The limit is the meaning. A century, if I’m lucky, not to simply pass through this world, but to fully inhabit it. To travel, to learn, to make something that resonates across hearts.

As Mary Oliver wrote:

So I mark my days with letters. With wax. With kisses on small foreheads. I say I love you so often it might sound like hyperbole—but it never is. I practice, daily, not just the art of living, but the discipline of remembering I will die.

This isn't about darkness. I'm talking about illumination.

Color of the Week: Hades

This week’s color is Hades, a figure as miunderstood as memento mori. Hades, the Greek god of the underworld, is often mistaken for a figure of terror—but in truth, he’s a keeper, not a killer. He doesn’t cause death; he holds what’s been lost. In myth, he rules not only over the dead, but over all that lies beneath the surface—minerals, seeds, buried things. He reminds us that what’s hidden isn’t gone, and what ends isn’t meaningless. The underworld isn’t a punishment; it’s a place of return, reflection, and transformation.

In a culture that avoids death, Hades offers a quiet counterpoint. He invites us to consider stillness as sacred, endings as essential, and love as something that can descend into the dark and come back changed. His presence teaches that death isn’t the opposite of life—it’s what gives life shape. When we remember that, we start to live more deliberately. We stop just visiting the world. We begin to belong to it.

Mark your Calendars!

This Tuesday, June 24 at 8 AM Pacific / 11 AM Eastern, I’ll be going live on Instagram with Andrew Morris of Sigillum Seals for a conversation I think you’ll love.

We’ll be sharing some exciting developments in the antique wax seal world—including a very special collaboration involving the Hastings Étui. But beyond the updates, this is a chance to hear directly from Andrew, who carries forward the extraordinary legacy of his father, David Morris—creator of the famed Matrix Collection and author of one of my most treasured books on seals, The Matrix Collection.

From both David and Andrew, I’ve learned not just the history of these beautiful objects, but the deeper calling of stewardship. I’d be honored to share that conversation with you.

If you can't attend or don't have Instagram, fear not. I will send a recording after the fact.

Follow @kathrynhastingsco on Instagram to join the session.

Hastings Penny Collection:

Rebus Penny Collect Here

Star & Memory Penny Collect Here

Fancy a Cuppa & Bay Leaf Penny Collect Here