Why We Only Do This Four Times a Year

pictured: tortoise vessel and verre 300 vessel

A quiet recognition that time moves in cycles, and that tending to ourselves often happens best when it’s invited — not insisted upon.

pictured: matte black essential collection vessel and incense holder

Each of these moments is anchored to the moon. Not because it’s mystical or performative, but because it’s reliable.

pictured: vessels from our atelier collection

There’s a certain kind of pressure that lives quietly in modern commerce.

The kind that teaches us to wait for the next incentive.

To hesitate, to delay, to assume that value is temporary — or negotiable.

That rhythm never felt right here.

august moon rise was never designed around urgency. It was built around practice: the steady return to things that support us without asking for attention in return. Objects that live alongside daily life — not as statements, not as solutions, but as companions. The kind you light again and again, not because you’re chasing a moment, but because it’s time.

When something is always discounted, it stops being trusted.

And when urgency becomes the language, meaning thins out.

So we choose restraint instead.

We offer a small number of codes each year — four, to be exact — not as promotions, but as pauses. Moments that acknowledge rhythm rather than demand action. These are not rewards for waiting, nor are they strategies to drive behaviour. They are simply markers. A quiet recognition that time moves in cycles, and that tending to ourselves often happens best when it’s invited — not insisted upon.

Each of these moments is anchored to the moon.

Not because it’s mystical or performative, but because it’s reliable.

The moon doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t rush.

It arrives, it recedes, it returns — whether we’re watching or not.

That consistency matters.

In February, we mark the practice. The kind of work that doesn’t sparkle. The tending that happens in winter — when routines carry us more than motivation does. This moment is a nod to therapeutic roots, to cultivation, to the quiet labour of staying with ourselves when nothing is blooming yet.

In August, we mark origin. A month that carries both my name and the name of this studio. Not as celebration, but as gratitude. A way of saying thank you for choosing to gather here, year after year, in a space built slowly and with care.

The other moments fall where they need to — one in spring, one in late autumn — to honour beginnings and returns. The soft start. The turning inward. Together, they form a rhythm that feels human. Seasonal without being trend-driven. Intentional without being instructive.

We don’t announce these moments loudly.

And we don’t build campaigns around them.

They arrive quietly, like everything else here.

Because the truth is, if something belongs in your home — if it’s meant to be part of your daily or weekly rituals — it shouldn’t require persuasion. It should feel steady. Available. Trustworthy. You shouldn’t have to strategize your relationship to it.

This is also why we don’t believe in teaching people to wait.

Waiting trains scarcity.

Practice builds relationship.

We want you to choose what you need when you need it — not because the clock says so, or because something might disappear. The codes simply acknowledge that sometimes, it’s nice to be met. To be offered a small moment of generosity without strings attached.

Four times a year feels right.

Enough to mark time.

Enough to say thank you.

Enough to stay aligned with how we believe people actually live.

The rest of the year, we let the work speak for itself.