I Miss Looking Forward to the Mailbox
The other day I found myself standing in the middle of a field, laughing at my dog. Milo had decided that the cows on the other side of the fence were clearly just oversized dogs who hadn’t realized they were supposed to come over and say hello. He trotted back and forth along the fence with complete confidence that friendship was inevitable, while the cows simply stared at him with the kind of patient curiosity reserved for creatures making very questionable life choices. I snapped a few photos, watched the whole exchange play out, and eventually continued our walk. At the time, it just felt like another ordinary morning. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I’d probably be telling that story for a long time.
I’ve been thinking a lot about moments like that lately because they seem to be at the heart of almost everything I create. People often ask where my ideas come from, and I never have a very satisfying answer. I could tell them I gather inspiration while hiking or that I spend hours studying native plants and wildlife, and while those things are true, they don’t really explain it. The real answer is much simpler. I pay attention. That’s all I’ve ever really done. Somewhere along the way I became the person who stops to photograph mushrooms growing from an old log, notices how the light catches a fern after it rains, or gets completely distracted because a butterfly landed in just the right place.
The funny thing is that none of those moments feel particularly important while they’re happening. They’re small. Quiet. Easy to miss if you’re in a hurry. Most people would probably walk right past them without giving them a second thought, and honestly, there are days when I almost do the same. Then something catches my eye, and I stop for just a minute longer, and that minute somehow turns into the beginning of a new illustration.
When I first started making art, I thought inspiration had to be something dramatic. I kept waiting for the big idea, the masterpiece, the collection that would arrive fully formed and announce itself with absolute certainty. It turns out that’s not how it works for me at all. My work has always grown out of smaller moments. A patch of mountain laurel blooming beside the trail. A monarch butterfly that refused to sit still long enough for a decent photograph. Blackberries tangled along an old fence. The goose that wandered through a field of wildflowers as if it owned the place. Looking back, every collection I’ve created has started with something I almost walked past.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy hiking so much. It isn’t about getting to the end of the trail as quickly as possible. If anything, I’m probably one of the slowest hikers out there because I’m constantly stopping. The dogs have become surprisingly patient with me. They know there’s a good chance I’m going to crouch down in the middle of the trail because I found an interesting mushroom or because I suddenly decided a leaf deserved its own photo shoot. I imagine, from their perspective, hiking with me is probably a little exhausting.
By the time I get back to the studio, those walks are still with me. I’ll sort through the photographs on my camera and remember exactly where I was standing when I took them. I remember what the air smelled like after a summer rain, how the trail sounded that morning, or the conversation I was having with myself while I walked. The sketch comes later, and eventually the finished illustration follows, but those first moments outside are always my favorite part of the process because they’re completely unplanned. I never know what I’m going to find, and I think that’s part of the magic.
Over the past year, I’ve realized something else. As much as I love creating artwork, I’ve started caring just as much about how people experience it. Posting an illustration on social media is wonderful, but I know how quickly it disappears. Someone might pause for a second, tap the little heart, and keep scrolling. By tomorrow it’s buried beneath hundreds of newer posts, and that’s simply the nature of the internet. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’ve found myself wanting something slower. Something that isn’t competing with notifications, breaking news, or videos of someone organizing their pantry.
I think that’s where Trail Side Post quietly began. It wasn’t born from a business plan or because I thought I needed another product to sell. If I’m being honest, I argued with myself about it for quite a while. The idea kept coming back, though, because it wasn’t really about selling art. It was about recreating a feeling I hadn’t experienced in years.
Do you remember when checking the mailbox was actually interesting?
Not because you were waiting for an online order that you’d already tracked six times that day. I mean before that. When a handwritten letter, a postcard, or an unexpected package could completely change an ordinary afternoon. There was something wonderfully ordinary about it. You opened the mailbox because you were curious, not because you already knew what was inside.
I realized I missed that feeling, and I wondered if other people did too.
That’s really what Trail Side Post is. Yes, every month there’s an original art print. Yes, there’s a Trail Treasure tucked inside and a Field Note sharing the story behind the artwork. But those are simply the pieces that make the experience possible. What I’m really hoping to send is a reason to slow down for a few minutes. Make a cup of coffee. Sit at the kitchen table. Open an envelope that someone packed with care instead of rushing through another delivery before moving on to the next thing on your list.
My hope is that, after you’ve looked at the artwork and read the Field Note, you head outside for a walk of your own. Maybe you’ll notice something you would have walked right past yesterday. Maybe it’ll be a bird, a wildflower, or a heart-shaped rock sitting in the middle of the trail. Maybe it’ll just be the way the light filters through the trees for a few minutes before disappearing again.
Those are the moments I want to collect, and they’re the moments I want to share.
When I look at Trail Side Post now, I don’t really see it as artist mail anymore. I see it as an extension of every walk I’ve taken, every sketch I’ve filled, and every quiet discovery that eventually found its way into my work. It’s my way of inviting someone else to slow down with me for a little while, to build a collection of beautiful things that carry stories with them, and to remember that some of life’s best moments aren’t the grand adventures at all. More often than not, they’re the ones waiting quietly beside the trail, hoping someone will stop long enough to notice.
