A morning under the wisteria

Every spring there are about two weeks when the old pergola at the botanical garden goes completely lavender. The blossoms hang so low you have to duck, and the air smells faintly of grapes and honey.

“A letter is a small garden you plant in someone else's mailbox.”

I bring a notebook and a handful of gel pens. Writing outdoors makes you slow down. You write a sentence, you look up at the blossoms, you write another, and somewhere in between the letter writes itself.

That rhythm is what we want everything in the shop to feel like. Nothing here is meant to make you faster. It's meant to make the minutes at your desk feel a little more like that morning under the wisteria.