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!”