Ink between the days

It’s a rainy evening here in the South Pacific.

The kind of rain that doesn’t storm its way through the landscape, but folds itself into the darkness —thickening it, perfuming it, softening everything it touches. The clouds have lingered since late afternoon, and now the wind moves lazily between the palms, slow and salt-sweet.

Strangely familiar to my memory this kind of rain settles on the garden with weight—steady, silvered, not dramatic but constant. It’s not just the temperature that has shifted, but something subtler. A quiet slowing. The light drapes itself low across the late afternoon, and by evening, a soft gloom has gathered outside.

Winter’s breath still hovered in the evenings and mornings, even while the afternoons radiate with summer’s leftover brilliance. The warmth would surge in, bold and insistent, only to be replaced again by that cooling, unsettled dusk. I step out early, wrapped in a scarf, and by noon i can discover a nicely sunny and warm enough day while swimming in the Pacific.

Disorienting and beautiful. I feel some of that season change.

And here we are, comfort-writing with my first Blog entry for my Inkwell – my space.

But, WHY this title?

Because I am probably one of the rare humans left to have learned to write using a true ink pen. Not a cartridge fountain pen. Not a disposable. But one that needed to be dipped—held thoughtfully, refilled, cared for. I still remember the particular scratch of the nib on the page, the way the ink would pool slightly if I paused too long.

I learned to be careful with my gestures, to be intentional.

Ink taught me that ideas take space and time..and carry values, intentions, commitment.

As an archaeologist, I can’t help but look at this simple fact with a certain awareness.

As a cultural anthropologist, I’ve continued to observe how our methods of expression change—and what they reveal about the kind of attention we give to our tools, and to each other.

I’ve always had a passion for inks and brushes—not only in the scripts I know best (Italian, English, French), but also Japanese, which opened a world of form and discipline that continues to inspire me.

My admiration extends across other cultures too—Arabic, Chinese, Korean—where calligraphy still holds reverence, where writing is both language and art, movement and meditation.

The Inkwell Blog will be a space apart from my journal. Less focused on professional reflections and more rooted in the quiet rituals and practices that form the undercurrent of my days.

This is where I’ll explore personal passions—calligraphy, tea, gardening—not only as hobbies but as cultural expressions, deeply intertwined with the places and cultures I’ve studied, lived, and learned from.

I want to explore and present the way these traditions still live and breathe—not only in ceremonies or textbooks, but in small, daily choices: the way I brew a pot of tea, the way I trim a garden branch, or the way at times I need to reach for my brush rather than a keyboard.

These are not distractions. They are forms of attention. Of care.

And tonight, with this week rain, I feel this.

So here begins The Inkwell Blog.

A small space. A steady practice. And outside, with the rain that still speaks.