Letting Things Come Apart (A Little)

There’s a version of this story where everything came together beautifully.

This is not that version.

This is the one where I debated — seriously — whether my glue should taste like lemon or vanilla.
(Lemon won. Obviously.)

This is the one where I made five versions of that glue.
Five.
Each one with its own personality. None of them particularly cooperative.

This is the one where I looked at a stack of notepads and thought:
I should have just… not done this.

And then did it anyway.

The glue situation

Let’s start there, because it really set the tone.

Using homemade, biodegradable, all-natural glue sounds very poetic in theory.
In practice, it’s… humbling.

It doesn’t behave like PVA glue.
It doesn’t care about your deadlines.
It has its own rhythm, its own moods, and at times, a clear desire to test your self-esteem.

There was a moment — somewhere between version four and five — where I felt personally betrayed by glue.
Which is not something I thought I would ever say.

But we got there.
Not perfectly. Not flawlessly.
But enough.

Enough to hold.
Enough to exist.
Enough to be shared.

The notepads (my personal saga)

The notepads were, without question, the hardest thing to make.

Which is funny, because they were also the one thing I knew I wanted to create from the very beginning of this season.

They’re made from paper scraps from the booklets — pieces that could have been discarded, now gathered, cut, assembled, given a second life.

And held together with… you guessed it.
homemade glue.

They are not perfect.
They are not industrial.
They are not built to survive being thrown at the bottom of a bag for six months straight without consequence.

They are a bit delicate.
Some pages may loosen with time.

And that’s… part of it.

There’s something honest about an object that doesn’t pretend to be permanent.
Something that reminds you it was made by hand, with real materials, with limitations, with care.

Personally, I tied a ribbon around my first prototype to extend its life.
It felt right.
A little customization, a little softness, a little okay, we’ll take care of each other.

I almost didn’t release them.

But I did.
Because sometimes the thing that’s hardest to make is also the one that matters most.

The stamps (a quiet inheritance)

The stamps came from a memory.

My dad, in his office, quietly working on his stamp collection.
My husband, same memory, different house, same kind of father.

It felt like an obvious truth the moment it came up:

This is the alternative to stickers.

Something slower.
More intentional.
Less disposable.

I love using them on envelopes, as headers in a planner, as little visual anchors in a page — like those ornate first letters in old manuscripts.

They don’t shout.
They sit.
They mark a moment.

And they carry a bit of history with them.

And the glue is lemon-flavoured.

The seeded paper (the overachiever)

When I say these are seed bombs, I mean it.

You could plant a very enthusiastic little garden with one pack.

These weren’t made primarily for writing — more for crafting, for confetti, for bookmarks, for labels — for small gestures that can later become something living.

Everything is made from recycled paper on our end, dyed with homemade vegetable pigments, and filled with local seeds chosen to support pollinators.

It was important to me that this part wasn’t just aesthetic.

That it aligned — genuinely — with what we believe in.

You use it.
You enjoy it.
And then, if you want to, you let it go.

And something grows from it.

The cards (for all kinds of celebrations)

The cards feature echinacea.

And this one is personal.

It makes me think of my mom —
a nurse, someone who worked in a herboristerie, someone who knows plants, who cares for others, who heals, who nurtures.

Someone who deserves all the flowers.

They’re made for spring, for Mother’s Day, for Ostara, for midsummer — or for any moment that deserves a bit of softness and colour.

A quick note about the inks (and Rosalie)

The inks are plant-based, non-toxic… and yes, technically taste-tested.

I looked away for one second.

One.

And suddenly she was blowing bubbled in my dye cup.

She was fine.
The inks are safe.
My nervous system needed a minute.

But honestly — Rosalie is everywhere in this collection.

She started finger painting over the holidays, and the moment I saw what she made, I knew.

The colours.
The gestures.
The freedom.

It all stayed.

And about Lunaire

The Cahier Lunaire isn’t part of this release.

Not because it doesn’t matter —
but because it does.

Life happened.
We’ve basically been passing the flu back and forth for what feels like two months straight.

And at some point, I had to choose:

Rush it… or respect it.

So we’re waiting.

It will come later this year.
With the time, care, and attention it deserves.

Even if, yes, it would have been perfect for right now.

What I hope you feel

I hope you feel spring in this collection.

I hope you feel inspired — creatively, intentionally.

I hope you allow yourself to love things that aren’t perfectly durable, perfectly smooth, perfectly controlled.

Things that might wear, shift, soften, come apart a little.

Things that can return to the earth.

Things that remind you that not everything has to last forever to matter.

—

With slightly sticky fingers, a hint of lemon, and a lot of trial and error,
Sarah
Atelier scriptural Writuals