Always in a rush. Can't you see ? Sometimes on heels In walls you crash? Did you stumble on this line, And stopped keeping track of time? Take your time, look and breath: You'd be surprised you are complete! No need to rush, No need to crush. No need of heels To turn life's wheels. The face in the mirror this morning Will do just fine for the rest of the days It's the pilot of the plane you're boarding Bringing your crew to your chosen bays.

” Where are you from?” It takes seconds to say where you come from and what you do. However, only you know what long way you really came from. The small print of life we never see, the fight people go through every day in settling and finding their place. Everyone is coming from a marathon to be where they are. It is impossible in the limits of everyday human verbal communication to cover any important parts of it. That is countless material going lost there. It is the bits that make for a life. I feel very much a part of the global search for identity, search for maximum adaptability, search for knowledge, for connection with like-minded people. This is the “curse” of the modern nomads. To know where you came from, be proud of and honour it, but acquire new skills and knowledge to adapt to fast changing new environments. We are all trying to reinvent the feeling of home within ourselves. My birth country is home of little Mira, not me. I will honour the childhood treasures home gave me there, but let them rest in their proper place. I have created enough space in my life for new people, new homes, new stories and new identities. I have no choice but writing, to make sense of all the new realities around me and all the changes occurring. Only by doing so, I am able to find my own place, stand my own ground, tell my truth in my own words. That is something really no one else on this planet can do. Writing is my ship helping me navigate the ever-changing waters of life. It is impossible to talk about home, without mentioning self-care. Feeling passionate and affectionate about ones own self is home. It starts as an internal experience. Wherever people are, if they take care of themselves and their loved ones, that is what creates a home. And for a lot of people that is different than the place they were born and/or raised in. This doesn't devalue the origins, it adds to the experiences one has in life. Rather than always being asked “Where do you come from?”, for me, a much more important and relevant question is “Where are you headed to?”. If one can take the step, take on the challenge, adapt to new cultures, rituals and relationships, seeing the many benefits this brings to you and the people you love, isn't that what future societies are going to be built upon? The point A I started sailing from is far behind and there is a lot of water that went under my ship. People are always going to ask where are you from. If I can find my home within myself, on my ship, in my writing, I won't be drifting from shore to shore. And you, where are you headed to?

I will always choose a letter. I love writing them, I love receiving them. The fact that someone took the time, sat down, and put pen on paper, says so much, is so personal. Email and messages have a definite place. But when it comes to personal touch, I'd always choose the written word. It gives so much away for the writer and reader. A letter-that is showing you see the person you are writing to. If Covid said anything, it was that nothing is self-understood. Anyone can get sick and die. We can not take things for granted. I remember chatting with a fellow writer friend saying we were in panic what if we never get to write all that is tugging on our sleeves? We never get to write that letter to that special someone or that story we were thinking about. When you write an honest letter with best regards to someone, you send a part of you in it. By doing the work, taking the time, and making the marks on the page that are meaningful, you are sending the message 'You matter, I see you, and I make the effort for you.' I don't know about the internet meaning the end of physical cards and letters, but for me, it simply won't do, as I adore writing. The trouble is, and let me tell you it is a big one, my friends stopped answering! That is why I will write a book to reach all of them :) I feel it in my fingers and toes. You need something to witness your experiences that does not have to be a camera. The best memories are often linked to the senses and simply no picture. But how to capture them? Well, postcard or letter. Less is more unless it comes to words. Then the amount does not matter. What counts is quality. To simply paraphrase Nike's famous quote: "Just write it!"

Winter white in the mountains is a special shade of white. It blinds you on a sunny day: everything is bright. It is a kind of warm white that lights up even the darkness of your head. Centuries-old trees make for the crystal-clean air that fills your lungs and purifies each cell of your body. If you let it, the mountain will refresh your whole spirit. There is no wi-fi there, but it could awaken your senses and make you feel more connected than ever before. While in the big city, you might feel like screaming to be heard or need to crash against others to feel something, nature sets you free. You don't have to do anything, you don't have to go anywhere. Even with closed eyes, you feel the touch of freshness on you. You want to breathe with full lungs what the mountain brings to you. You listen to birds, branches, and leaves, dancing with the wind. Everything is just as it is supposed to be, natural. It takes the weight of your thoughts and your soul feels like flying. Nature comes in colours. As is life. Winter white, spring green, summer yellow and autumn red, and all the nuances in between. The colours, the sound of the wind, the leaves. The language of nature. It is there, always.

Sunday early afternoon in the Tuscan countryside, mid-August, 40°C outside. I make the most of it by staying hydrated inside. Just another lazy holiday day, this is as lazy as the year gets. In the large, old living room on the ground floor, it is a few degrees cooler. Time has stopped here. Light is scarce, so I like to open the blinds of the only large window in the room, with a view of the back garden. The house is quiet. The only sound I hear, apart from my breathing, is sporadically some insect-buzz from the garden. All the furniture is from over 70-80 years ago. I look around – every single object in that room bears a piece of family history. The portraits of children, now grown up, older people; the cutlery in the cupboards, with which the big family had eaten and celebrated events together; the liquors, untouched for years, that have greeted important guests; the old-fashioned desk where letters and records were written; the leather sofa, offering me a gentle hug every time I surrender tired on it. The vases with decorative dry flowers standing on various surfaces – finishing touch of the lady of the house; the handmade goblins and the paintings, hanging on the walls – made by the ancient owners of the place. I could smell the layers of dust carrying history in here. But there was something else: the smell of old furniture, air that has not been let out since months, maybe years? A nostalgic snapshot of many years of many people's lives. If only the walls could talk.. I take all the atmosphere in. It inspires me. I came here to write. No phone, no computer, just my notebook, pen, a few books and my imagination. I feel my throat is dry and quickly taste the refreshing, cold water I had brought. I make myself comfortable on the central, big table. As I sit down, the wooden chair feels cold. I lean back and stare at the blank page for a while. I realise the only thing standing in the way of my writing is my doubt, uncertainty to commit to an idea. But somehow, as steady and timeless as this place is, it motivates me to create lives and universes on paper. I can see a character, a woman, in her thirties, she is expecting a baby, happy and smiling, she is resting on a bench in a beautiful, green park. She holds a diary, or no, a sketch book maybe, she is drawing something on the pages. There are bees and butterflies in the air and if I try I can almost hear them and smell the air of that early-summer day. My hand starts to write on the blank paper and I can see the words coming to life: “Dear Mum, The holiday has just begun and it is one of the hottest late May afternoons in years. If only you could sit next to me right now, you would feel my bubbling joy, like I feel the new life through my veins. Any day now can be the D-day. You should know, it is a girl and she is going to be called Hope. Just like the feeling she is bringing with her arrival. I feel I never really knew what love was until expecting. I know now for sure I am changing and there is going to be a new me when she is born. A fears mum protecting her baby. I will not have a peaceful breath until I make sure she is all right. Remember how you used to tell me “Believe in yourself, this is the one true thing in life!”? I have never believed in anything more than I believe in my ability to protect this little life I carry inside me. I used to write a lot, for myself, letter to you, to friends. Then life happened, my writing stopped. I do feel though that if I don't put pen on paper now, I might lose these magical feelings surrounding these moments of my life. Isn't the Present all the moments that happen? But if they are like the corals of sand on the beach, I often feel they slip through my fingers. So I write to you now, because I need a witness to this memory. I look at the picture around me as a whole: beautiful afternoon, hot breeze caressing my skin, the buzz of bees, the beauty of butterflies and the sun on the horizon starting to set, bathing the park in most beautiful shades of colours. The life inside me getting ready to come to this beautiful world and I can not wait to show her all of it. This snapshot of life will not be lost in the sand on life's beach. I just captured it through my writing. Right now everything is hot: the sunset is in hot colours, the breeze, the feelings inside me. This literal and figurative warmth I capture and can always use it when I get cold in the mundane everyday buzz. If the growing baby inside me has taught me anything, it is to slow down, notice if not everything, then at least as much as possible around, use all the senses to “see”, in an almost different dimension, on a different level with different eyes. And the pictures are marvellous, they are mine. They are the most precious captures of life I have, without using a camera. When we read these lines later, we will feel warm. And never alone again. Hope on the way! Much love to you, mum!”