The Art of Receiving Real Mail Again
The other morning I walked down to the mailbox without expecting anything particularly exciting. If I’m honest, there are days when I almost don’t bother checking it until the afternoon because I already know what I’ll find inside. A bill or two, a flyer for something I don’t need, and maybe an advertisement trying to convince me to switch insurance companies or buy a service I wasn’t looking for in the first place. By the time I make it back to the house, half of it has already been sorted into a recycling pile. Somewhere along the way, checking the mailbox quietly shifted from being a small moment of curiosity to just another chore on a list that needs to get done before moving on to the next thing.
It wasn’t always like that, though. I can still remember when getting mail felt special, even if what arrived wasn’t particularly important. A handwritten letter, a postcard from someone traveling, or a birthday card with a few dollars tucked inside somehow carried more excitement than any package I’ve ordered online in recent years. Maybe part of that was simply being younger, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. There was an anticipation to it because you didn’t already know what was inside before you opened it. Someone had taken the time to choose the paper, write the words, find a stamp, and send it on its way. Even before you unfolded the letter, you knew another human being had spent a little bit of their day thinking about you, and I don’t think we’ve ever found a digital replacement for that feeling.
The internet has given us so many wonderful things, and I certainly wouldn’t be doing what I do without it. Every illustration I create eventually finds its way onto a screen. I share new collections on social media, send newsletters to my email list, upload products to my website, and connect with people from all over the country who somehow stumbled across Wild Ridge Studio because an algorithm decided to introduce us. I don’t take that for granted for a second because it’s allowed me to build a business doing something I genuinely love. At the same time, I’ve started noticing something about myself over the past year. The faster everything has become, the more I’ve found myself craving things that move at a completely different pace.
Maybe that’s why I’ve fallen back in love with books. Lately I’ve been listening to more audiobooks than watching television, and I’ve noticed how much calmer my evenings feel because of it. Instead of bouncing from one episode to another, I can listen while I sketch, cook dinner, or take the dogs for a walk. It leaves room for my mind to wander, and that’s usually when ideas begin to appear. The same thing happens on the trail. I rarely head out with the intention of finding inspiration, but it almost always finds me anyway. Sometimes it’s Milo becoming convinced that a field full of cows is actually an invitation to make new friends. Other times it’s Zina stopping because she’s heard something long before I have, or a cluster of mushrooms quietly growing out of a fallen log that I would have walked right past if I hadn’t slowed down for a minute.
When I get home from those walks, I don’t immediately start drawing. Usually I download the photographs first and spend a little time looking through them while the dogs settle in for a nap. That’s often when I notice something I missed while I was standing there. A tiny insect tucked inside a flower. The way the light wrapped around a fern. A butterfly sitting just long enough for one good photograph before disappearing again. Those little observations have become the starting point for almost every collection I’ve created. People often assume my illustrations begin with a sketchbook, but for me they begin much earlier than that. They begin with paying attention, and the sketch is simply the next step in preserving a moment I don’t want to forget.
The more I thought about that process, the more I realized I wasn’t just interested in creating artwork anymore. I wanted to create an experience around the artwork, something that reflected the same slower pace as the walks that inspired it. I didn’t want another product that someone clicked “Add to Cart” on and forgot about a week later. I wanted to make something that encouraged people to pause for a few minutes before moving on with the rest of their day. That idea stayed with me for months because I couldn’t quite figure out what it wanted to become. It certainly wasn’t another social media post, and it wasn’t simply another print in my shop. It needed to feel more personal than that.
Eventually I realized I wasn’t trying to recreate the excitement of online shopping at all. I was trying to recreate the feeling of opening real mail. Not because the envelope contained something expensive or extravagant, but because opening it became a small ritual. You might make a cup of coffee first, sit down at the kitchen table, and take your time instead of tearing it open between errands. You’d unfold the note, look at the artwork, smile at the little surprise tucked inside, and maybe leave everything sitting on the table for a while before deciding where it belonged. It’s such an ordinary experience when you describe it out loud, but I think that’s exactly why it appeals to me. There aren’t many parts of our day anymore that invite us to slow down without asking us to accomplish something at the same time.
That’s really where Trail Side Post came from. It wasn’t born because I wanted to start a subscription, and it certainly wasn’t because I thought I needed another thing to sell. It grew out of the simple idea that maybe opening the mailbox could become enjoyable again. Every month I get to send an illustration inspired by a real place, a Trail Treasure that complements the artwork, and a Field Note sharing the story behind it all. My hope isn’t simply that someone frames the print or uses the bookmark. I hope they remember what it felt like to receive something that was created slowly, packed carefully, and sent into the world with the intention of bringing a little bit of joy to an otherwise ordinary afternoon.
As I’ve worked on Trail Side Post, I’ve realized it’s really about much more than paper goods. It’s about creating a reason to pay attention again, both to the things arriving in our mailbox and to the things waiting just outside our front door. The trails have taught me that beauty rarely announces itself. It’s usually tucked beneath the obvious things, waiting for someone to stop long enough to notice it. If opening one of these envelopes encourages someone to take a walk, look a little closer at the wildflowers blooming beside the trail, laugh at their dog doing something ridiculous, or simply spend a few quiet minutes away from a screen, then I think it has accomplished exactly what I hoped it would. And if, somewhere along the way, checking the mailbox starts feeling a little like it did years ago, then that’s a pretty wonderful bonus too.
