Pocket Hearts: Handmade Gifts & Valentine's Day Self-Love

February has a way of narrowing life down to its essentials.

The light is low (some days). The air is crisp (most days). The world feels quieter (hopefully), as if it has decided to conserve its energy until spring comes around again. It’s a season that invites smaller movements, slower mornings, and more time spent noticing what’s close at hand.

This time of year, I find myself paying more attention to ordinary rituals. Making tea—again. Watching birds at the feeder. Bringing in the mail—or getting my daughters to. Opening packages slowly instead of tearing into them. Letting small moments stretch a little longer than they might otherwise.

There’s something comforting in that rhythm.

We’re often encouraged to think in big gestures and bold expressions — especially when February arrives with its hearts and pink displays and carefully packaged ideas of romance. But most of the love I recognize in my own life looks quieter than that. (I said “most”, Graham. ❤️) It shows up in shared meals with friends, familiar objects found in pockets, handmade things that aren’t perfect, and time given without an audience.

The story you’re about to read grew out of that noticing.

It begins with a package arriving. With winter light through the window and birds moving in and out of view. And with a simple question: what if something small could be made, kept close, and quietly passed along when the moment felt right?

Pocket Hearts is a story about making something with your hands. About learning to be okay with slow work. About finding meaning in objects that won’t ever be displayed, but will be held, warmed, and remembered.

It’s about the kind of love that doesn’t announce itself.

The kind that fits in a coat pocket.

The kind that waits patiently to be given.

I hope it feels like sitting near a window on a winter afternoon, with a hot drink nearby and nowhere you need to rush to.

Lots of love,

Jennifer

🎧 💜 If you'd like to listen, instead of read - the narrated podcast version of “Pocket Hearts” is available HERE 🎧

🕯 💜 I create MICRO-EXPERIENCES inspired by The Slow Life — these are short, gentle reading moments designed to help you slow down and rest in the village for as long as you like. They’re available to enjoy on screen or on paper, individually or in small bundles HERE 💌  

This story is called Pocket Hearts, and it’s about a package delivered, shaping things by hand, and a small reminder.

I pull my sweater further around me as I step outside to bring in the mail, breathing in air that’s crisp with winter. A few neighbours are out touching up their front steps after the dusting of snow that fell overnight.

There isn’t much mail today, but it does hold a small padded envelope I recognize immediately.

I carry everything inside and set it on the kitchen island beside my tea. The kettle is still warm on the counter, and a faint thread of steam wisps in swirls from the spout as I walk by it. I take my time opening the package, pulling carefully along the seam so I don’t tear it too much. Inside are the carving gloves I ordered last week. I’m as excited as a gardener opening the seed catalogue as soon as it arrives.

They are soft, with textured grips across the palms and fingers. When I slip them on, they fit snugly, making my hands feel steady and capable. I flex my fingers a few times, testing them, noticing how easily they move.

I stand a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the island, aware of how something so small can shift a whole day.

I hadn’t planned to carve today. There are other things that would have used my attention. A notebook open on the table. A book with a ribbon marking my place. None of it is urgent, but all of it is waiting, ready when I am.

Still, the gloves’ arrival feels like an invitation.

I take my tea into the living room and sit facing the window, watching the birds taking turns at the feeders placed in perfect view. February has settled in fully now. Shop windows are filled with paper hearts and pink displays, careful arrangements of gifts waiting to be chosen.

Out of habit, as I’m sitting, I reach into my sweater pocket and find the small piece of driftwood I keep there.

I found it years ago on the beach, worn smooth by water and time until every hard edge disappeared. It’s no bigger than a coin, flat and pale and unremarkable to anyone else. I turn it between my fingers, feeling its familiar surface, warmed now by my hand.

I don’t know exactly why I keep it. Only that I love the way it feels. It weighs almost nothing, as dry and small as it is.

I never would have been searching for something like it, the way I search for sea glass or bigger pieces of driftwood, so finding it felt extra special.

Looking at my carving gloves in front of me, a thought arrives. What if I made something like this? Something small enough to carry. Something shaped by hand. Something meant to be touched and kept close, rather than displayed on a shelf.

The Valentine theme seeps into my mind. A pocket heart.

I finish my tea, the thought percolating for a few minutes. I find myself smiling at the idea and head down the hallway to the cupboard where I keep my supplies. Inside, neatly stacked, are the blocks of basswood I’ve been saving. Light-coloured. Soft-grained. Reliable and easy to work with.

I choose two pieces and take them to the island where there’s lots of space.

I spread out my tools, slip the gloves back on, and set the blocks in front of me. For a moment, I simply look at them. Pieces of wood that I’ve learned to shape into many different things. It’s a hobby that keeps my thoughts only on the task at hand.

I sketch the outlines in pencil, as I saw my favourite carver do in her video, letting my hand move without overthinking. A simple heart. Rounded and squat, rather than tall and pointed. Something that will rest easily in a palm or slip into a pocket without effort.

When I pick up the knife, my movements are slow and safe. The blade meets the basswood easily, peeling away thin curls that gather on the placemat below. Some wood chips always find their way further off, so I’ve placed a piece of folded cardboard in front of me to catch the little jumpers so they don’t escape. I pause often, turning the piece, adjusting my angle, letting my fingers guide me as much as my eyes.

The first heart takes shape gradually. Its edges becoming rounder with every pass of the knife. It begins to feel less like wood and more like something soft to hold. Eventually I’m satisfied with the curves and the thickness of it, not wanting to take off more than I should. I set this one aside and begin the second.

The next, I carve even more carefully. I imagine it resting in another person’s hand, being found again and again in moments of stillness. In a coat pocket. At the bottom of a bag. On a bedside table beside a book and a pair of glasses.

When both hearts are shaped, I remove my gloves and begin sanding. This part requires bare hands and not much pressure. Back and forth, steadily, with fine paper, just enough to smooth the feeling of it. I like to keep the look of a hand carved surface, with the facets from each cut still visible. I’m happy with how they’ve turned out.

I open the jar of beeswax salad bowl finish and breathe in its clean scent. It reminds me of workshops and kitchens and objects meant to be used, not admired from a distance. I rub a small amount onto each heart, watching the colour deepen, the grain becoming warmer and more alive.

After they sit for a while, I buff them with a cloth, over and over, until they glow gently without being shiny.

They’re not perfect.

They’re not identical.

I turn them over in my hands. Feeling their weight. Their warmth. Their softness. So much love is present in choosing to care about something small.

One heart slips easily into my coat pocket, where I’ll find it the next time I’m out. The other slips into a small paper envelope on the table, waiting for when the moment feels right to gift it to another.

A small reminder that love does not need to be loud.

That it can be held gently, and carried with you, wherever you go.

I wish you sweet dreams.