Writing past resistance begins with showing up. A quiet reflection on using a typewriter to break through resistance and choosing the page again.

A difficult season changed everything — including my writing life. What I relearned about returning to the page in the quiet halls of a Roman hospital.

In a quiet Roman alley, a white linen tablecloth swayed in the breeze — a fleeting moment that invited me to pause, breathe, and remember the beauty of slowing down.

 A quiet tribute to paper, place, and local craft. How a Roman neighborhood press, Italian-sourced paper, and a simple letterpress card became part of my refreshed online presence.

 I’ve collected glasses for every task—reading, writing, even chopping onions—but lately, they’ve come to reflect more than just aging eyes. This is a story about perspective, transitions, and how the lenses we choose (literal and metaphorical) shape how we see the life we’re living.

I used to save my nice notebooks—the beautiful ones with thick paper, soft leather covers, or embossed designs. I told myself I’d use them when I had something important to say, when my words felt worthy of the page. Until then, they sat on my shelf, waiting.

The page is like a map for my day, the X that marks the spot where I am. Here I am, right now, looking out the window and noticing the little things. This quiet time helps me tune into how I feel, what’s pressing on my mind, and what I want for the day. It’s a starting point, every morning, over and over again; a way of continuing to be myself.

I keep a list of what nourishes me through the winter season for days when I might forget.