| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

Yesterday, during a break from our gathering in Seattle, I returned home for a few quiet hours. While taking the recycling out to the alley, I passed a single red rose I planted last year—now, at last, in bloom.

Naturally, I stopped. The rose was tilted upward, collecting raindrops from the midday storm, its face the soft blush of someone unbothered by being seen. I stepped closer. The petals, damp and glossy, were spangled with dew—some droplets stretched long like glassy domes between touching petals, others hung like tiny suspended orbs along the edges. I went inside for my camera. It was the sort of magic you want to prove existed.

I always say I’m not a gardener—gardeners work. I just want to sit in gardens and look at things. For me, the joy is not in tending, but in beholding. And in that moment, I could have stayed forever watching the dew. A sadness came over me when I realized I’d have to go back inside, as if I were being pulled from a conversation with something ancient and good.

Looking through the lens, I was struck not only by the geometry of the droplets, but by the petal itself—how its color shifted from bluish black at the base to a triumphant red at the tip, the whole surface faintly iridescent. I found myself wondering: what might this rose look like to another animal? One with eyes tuned to ultraviolet or infrared? What hidden dramas might unfold in colors I’ll never see?

Then I saw one droplet in particular, stretched between two petals like it was being gently pulled—but utterly still. It reminded me how much beauty escapes us, how many billions of dew drops I’ve passed without noticing. What a strange luxury, then, to pause. To witness.

Sometimes I think humanity spends too much time pondering the gaze of a watchful God, when our own eyes, if given the chance, are perfectly capable of awe. The rain sends us scurrying, but it also leaves behind these little gems. They glint on leaves and petals, silent reminders: we are the ones who can see. We are the witness. And perhaps the rarest opulence of all is to simply slow down and notice our lives.

Seal of the Week: May It Watch Over You

Building on that moment of stillness and shimmer, I made a seal—a small talisman from an antique original depicting the Eye of Providence, with the inscription: “May it watch over you.”

I added a clear, glassy paint to the surface of the seal—just a touch, just enough to catch the light like dew. Now, when you turn it, the eye seems almost wet. As though it too has stood in a storm. As though it knows what it is to see something fleeting and hold it for just a moment longer.

It’s a small homage to that rose and all the unnoticed jewels of the world. A seal not only of blessing, but of witnessing.

In Case You Missed It - Rebus Guide

You can now download the wonderful free Rebus Dictionary to inspire your next sealed dispatch. You can download it here.  I also have rebus pennies remaining for the Hastings Étui. This is the perfect seal for someone who loves speaking in symbols and having a reminder of wellness and authenticity.

Warmly,

Kathryn