Returning to the Way I Began

Lately, I’ve been longing for the way things once were.

Before The Ritual evolved into a full-time endeavour, before the emphasis shifted to efficiency and optimisation, I cherished those moments when I would sit quietly, folding paper slowly, pressing it into an envelope, sealing it with wax, and sending it off with a whisper of blessing—a prayer for the one about to receive it. I miss that intimate connection, that romance in the act of creation, just as I experienced with my original Moon Mail just over five years ago. I’m so proud with how Moon Mail has evolved and the wealth of information I’ve infused into it and how it is now delivered digitally. I would not be able to offer that amount of knowledge in a physical letter. I do however find myself missing the simple joy of sending handwritten letters.

It felt sacred, even when no one was watching. Especially then.

I’ve always been a hopeless romantic, someone who finds magic in the mundane. I’ve always figured out how to use technology—not because I love it, but because I’ve had to. Out of necessity, I’ve learned the platforms, the systems, the tools that define our modern lives. But it’s never felt natural to me. I’ve never felt entirely comfortable with a phone in my hand, snapping pictures or typing out thoughts on a glowing screen. Most of my writings are born via audio message and then turned into digital musings. I feel that being inside an app pulls me out of the moment rather than anchoring me in. The dance of capturing life on film, however, is a different story—those frames hold soul, texture, slowness, and the intimacy of a crafted experience. Yet, more often than not, I’ve felt like I’m trying to mould something sacred into a shape it was never meant to be, wrestling with the very essence of what it means to connect.

As I observe this shifting world—everything now dependent on speed, screens, and systems—I find myself resisting. Not in rebellion, but in reverence. To honour a slow, intentional life, I’ve realised some sacrifices must be made. And strangely, they don’t feel like sacrifices at all; they feel like reclaiming my spirit.

Perhaps I won’t earn as much. Perhaps my contribution to the family won’t look as balanced on paper. But I don't want things to be equal; I want them to be meaningful. I long to fill my days with what my heart was created to do—and to do it well. I want to find beauty in running a home, nurturing my children, caring for the earth, and creating connections that remind us of our shared humanity. That’s what true wealth feels like to me.

I’ve written about beauty for as long as I can remember. Not the performative kind, but the kind that has kept me alive, that has saved me from slipping into despair more times than I can count. Beauty is a balm, a compass, a sacred thread that connects heaven to earth. It is the soft whisper in a chaotic world, inviting us to notice the delicate dance of life unfolding around us.

Beauty is the shape of grace when it has nowhere to go but into the body. It’s the way light rests on a surface and turns it holy. It’s what remains when everything else is stripped away; it is the essence of life itself.

And for me, beauty begins in the hands.

Every class I’ve ever taught, I’ve reminded my students: our hands are not just extensions of our body. They are tools of the heart. There’s a meridian—a literal energetic line—that runs from the heart down through the arms and into the hands. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, this is called the Heart Meridian, and it governs our ability to feel deeply, connect genuinely, and touch with tenderness and intention.

This connection is vital. It’s why using my hands has always mattered. Why folding paper, mixing oils, stirring herbs, baking, sewing, cleaning, and writing by hand resonate with a deeper truth. Each act becomes a meditation, a moment to breathe, to acknowledge my presence in the world. I find purity in these tactile experiences, a reminder that connection can exist beyond the confines of a screen.

I’ve been invited to join all kinds of platforms. And I’ve tried most of them. But reading on a screen still feels… off. Like the soul of the words gets lost in the pixels, obscured by the rush of the digital flow. I want to read people’s thoughts and findings in my hands — which is why I have a storage unit full of books, crammed with stories waiting to be felt, and why I’ve never quite let go of the dream of print.

That book deal hasn’t landed in my lap yet (I trust it will, in its time), but until then, I’m quietly creating a way for my words to meet you over a cup of tea or a glass of wine—in real time, on real paper. There’s something so thrilling about that. Not flashy. Not instant. But thrilling in a way that makes your chest ache a little with joy, the kind of joy that reminds you being human is a beautifully intricate experience.

And yes, time is scarce these days. I have very few hours when both hands are free. Yet this scarcity only adds to the preciousness of each moment I can create. It reminds me that meaningful connections and acts of beauty are not rushed but cherished, like the slow unfolding of petals in a blooming flower.

So while I take this time to nurture my family and reflect on the essence of beauty in my life, I invite you to explore your own ways of creating beauty, honouring the sacred in the everyday. May you find meaning and intention in every action, anchoring yourself in the tangible gifts of this world.

Until we meet again, may you discover your own beauty in the pause, the paper, and the work only you were born to do.

So much love,

Brooke x