| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

Do you ever travel somewhere without telling anyone?

Not in a worrying sense—I still text my emergency contacts—but in the sacred, soul-preserving way of slipping off the map for a bit. No itinerary. Just my feet, the city, and time that belongs only to me.

Yesterday was one of those rare, golden days in New York. I walked more than I’ve likely walked since having children—and my eldest is nearly seven. My feet are still sore, and I wished I had walked more leading up to my trip, but I feel so much joy for the day.

I came to the city a little early for a final meetup in a mentorship I’m doing with Laura Belgray, choosing to arrive a few days before the official start. A small gift to myself: time to simply be. To wander. To disappear into the architecture of the city, into gallery walls and unknown cafes.

I have my favorite places—always will—but there’s a delicious tension between the familiar and the unknown here. New York is an infinite city. You could live a thousand lifetimes and not exhaust its offerings. I find myself balancing between reverent returns to beloved spots and small acts of exploration: a new bakery, a tucked-away sculpture, a park I’d somehow never noticed before.

But what’s shifted most, I think, is how I notice things. Since committing fully to my life as an artist, the world glows with texture. Every experience feels saturated. I find myself marveling at everyone on their way to somewhere, the myraid scents as a I stroll, most of which are surprisingly pleasant. Even last night—after a long meander back to my hotel—I looked up and saw a star above Manhattan. A star. I never thought they were visible here. But maybe they always were, and I just hadn’t been looking.

It reminds me of a story from years ago when I lived in Germany. My little sister, then around nine, listened to a recording called Der kleine Tag—The Little Day. In this tale, time is personified. Days are glowing beings, waiting their turn in a realm beyond time to descend to Earth and become real. Each hopes for a grand entrance. A day when something momentous occurs.

The Little Day is the youngest. He waits a year for his turn, brimming with nerves and hope. But when he finally comes to Earth, nothing particularly newsworthy happens. No parades. No revolutions. Just people being kind. Children playing. Music drifting from open windows. People simply enjoying the day.

He returns, ashamed that his day was so… ordinary.

But later, the older days gather and reflect. And they realize his was one of the most needed days of all—a day of peace and quiet goodness. And so the Little Day is honored.

I think about that story often. I think about how many of our days go uncelebrated because they’re not loud. Because they don’t leave headlines in their wake. But what if we built a life out of those? A life of thousands of Little Days—full of beauty, of noticing, of pleasure taken seriously. What if we gave ourselves permission to delight in the simple fact of being alive?

Yesterday in New York was a Little Day. And I’m beginning to think those might be the ones that matter most.

The Hastings Étui: A celebration of little days

​The Hastings Étui isn’t about making life bigger or louder. It’s about paying attention. It’s about the pleasure of sealing a letter just because you felt like writing one. Or making a seal that doesn't have a letter to match yet. It’s about carving out space in your day for something unnecessary, beautiful, and entirely worthwhile.

I didn’t create the Étui as a reaction to digital life, though that’s often how it’s framed. I created it because I believe in small, intentional acts. The kind of details that could easily be skipped but somehow make everything feel richer. A wax seal doesn’t change the world—but it can shift your day. It can make someone feel seen. It can mark a moment as worth remembering.

The Hastings Étui is, quite literally, a container for little days. It holds the tools to mark a Wednesday afternoon as something special. It reminds us that meaning doesn’t have to come in capital letters. Sometimes it’s handwritten. Sometimes it’s sealed.

Color of the Week: Luce Veneziana

When I visited Venice as a child, I remember being struck by the light. I’d never really noticed light before—not in any conscious way—but in Venice, it was impossible to ignore. It had this soft, golden quality, almost yellowed with time, as if the whole city had been lit from within. The way it filtered through buildings, bounced off the water, and slipped down alleyways—it felt otherworldly, as if someone had gently turned down the contrast on the world.

Little days often begin with noticing the light. It’s fleeting, quiet, and full of feeling. Years later, when I began studying Venetian Renaissance painters, I learned that this light I’d fallen in love with wasn’t just in my imagination. Artists across centuries had seen it too—had tried to bottle that same pale shimmer in paint.

This sealing wax is my own small tribute to that light. Its color mirrors the distant, luminous hues that stretch across Venetian skies and echo through those centuries-old canvases. A soft horizon in wax form.

I am in NYC for a few more days, but will write more soon. Until then, I hope you carve out space to enjoy your little days,