My Friend Ruri

Minors still, she was only 16, we drowned in each others eyes. Stoic Asian features masked her lust for love and life. Together we sat in silence, learned and laughed. My Tai chi teacher opened closed doors for her. The sitar/tabla player coveted her as a student, maybe more. Zen Master Deshimaru engaged her in easy conversation in their native tongue. Her charm and talents were abundant and obvious to all. Her soul was like a deep bottomless well. Her spirit soared. Lord Krishna adorned the walls of her childhood bedroom. At a tenuous threshold, no longer child - not yet woman. Psychic, her nightmares foretold her drowning, still a minor at the tender age of only 19.

Synchronicity I

Synchronicity has been lacking in my life of late, of recent years. It used to play an important role. Here I want to reflect a bit on it's occurrences in my life. 

Synchronicity is a term coined by the Swiss Psychologist C. G. Jung and described as follow in Wikipedia: "Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events, that are apparently causally unrelated or unlikely to occur together by chance, that are observed to occur together in a meaningful manner."

Seems to me that after I started to doubt the meaning of synchronistic events they seemed no longer to occur. Meaning of course is what we assign and is not inherent, so is very personal.

Jung lived and worked in Zurich a few decades before my arrival, so that by the time I emerged in to adulthood the term synchronicity was well known and used, certainly in the social circles I chose. Dwuno, my mentor in my late teens had introduced me to the I-Ching, the Chinese oracle "... centered on the ideas of the dynamic balance of opposites, the evolution of events as a process, and acceptance of the inevitability of change." Ideas that made perfect sense to me then and now. A foundation that allowed me to embrace principles of Astrology in that same spirit of analogy rather then causality.

While Dwuno used sticks from stalks of plants (Schafgarbe) gathered at the proper, auspicious phase of the lunar cycle, I employed the simpler method of 3 Chinese copper (for it's conductivity) coins. I remember often feeling a sense of awe, and a sense of embracing life anew with reverence, and a strengthening of my belief in hidden forces at work that gave meaning to life in general and mine in particular. 

There was an incident where living communally with several guys I had mixed up our laundry to the hilarity of those involved, giving socks, maybe underwear, to one, not the other. Somehow the I Ching's response to my inquiry was profound, even though so many decades later I no longer can recall the specifics. My reading then enlightened me to some of my underlying, until then unconscious feelings.

In Amsterdam, a few years later, alone, in search of the New Age, a week had passed, I was at a loss, it was a beautiful full moon night as I returned early to the Youth Hostel. I threw an I-Ching, was stunned, slept and my world changed. Next morning for the first time I talked to others at the hostel. As I walked the rainy, dreary streets of Amsterdam again, the sun broke through. While I watched a lovely scene of many cats that enjoyed a brief, warm respite on a romantic looking houseboat, I was invited in, found a new home, a new friend, and a new beginning in this most interesting of cities, Amsterdam. Soon enough I was able to immerse myself in New Age practices like Astrology, Massage Therapy, Tai Chi, Encounter Groups, Vegetarian eating and free form dancing to name only a few. It was the mid-seventies. Times were rich, exciting and full of promise. I credit the I-Ching with my finding my way in to the new age communities of Amsterdam more expediently.

Before leaving Amsterdam again and that time for good, I connected with a Surinam black man, at least a decade older then I was then with a love of alternative theater  similar to mine (he may have had his own company, I no longer can recall with certainty.) We were not lovers, but seemed both to have the same experiences of thinking of one another as we might walk the neighborhood, only to almost immediately bump in to each other. This happened so often, it was uncanny. Probably if I had stayed on, rather then moved on, we might have become lovers, the attraction was powerful, the synchronicities amazing.

In Zuerich, one night as I meandered along the cobblestone streets of old town, I witnessed a gypsy guy playing flamenco style guitar. Suddenly he took off and left his case and cash behind, obviously afraid of the oncoming police. So I sat down next to his case and cash and eventually, after a good long while I was able to return those items to him and so another intense attraction ensued. One in which I could feel his stare on my back, while completely unaware of his proximity.

I did have a boyfriend in Amsterdam, a dutch boy with a wide grin, pink skin and big, today I would say schizoid, crazy eyes. Intensely concerned about his mental health there were times I could hear his thoughts in my head, before he spoke, eerie. In obeyance to the voice of his god, he did jump off a third story balcony. The lack of serious injury seemed to only confirm to his mind his belief in his higher power. He was institutionalized for a while. Sadly I lost touch with him, but often wonder if he is still alive - and well. His life was laced with synchronicity, stories that are not mine to tell.

But synchronistic events did not limit themselves to or with love objects. In Amsterdam I got myself in the middle of line of hitchhikers in need of reaching the place of destination for an exciting workshop I had signed myself on. I was dismayed at the long line of kids seeking a free ride, most to international destinations. Oddly though within moments a car stopped right in front of me, in the middle of that long line, at the outskirt of Amsterdam and I was offered a ride that deposed me right at the proper address in a little nearby village. Sure seemed to me that I was at the right place at the right time. Synchronicity at it's best; practical and very useful.

In New York I remember bending down to tie my shoe laces, only to avoid twice things falling from above, once water and something else (a rock?) the next time. Both times I was outside my lower east side apartment and one might argue a neighbor may not have liked me, although that had not  ever occurred to me then.

In Santa Fe oddly my new home would echo the one prior in Manhattan where I had lived on 717 East 5th Street while in Santa Fe my address was 717 Manhattan Ave. I was never sure about the meaning of this one, but always got a tickle from this fact.

I was working at a progressive psychiatric clinic outside Zurich, I was twenty. My girlfriend had gone to Israel on vacation.  I wondered if she had returned home, she was to bring me back a Bedouin dress chosen especially for me by my friend Shoshi in Israel. Uncharacteristic for me I lingered at lunch time, read the news paper and discovered an article on two Japanese girls that had drowned by accident in the lake the day before. It could not be? Yes, it did happen. My best friend and her sister had drowned by accident for real. I was able to give a tiny bit of comfort to the mother as I recounted her daughter's dreams in which she had repeatedly experienced the terror of drowning. We  had discussed those at great length in the early morning hours, maybe 4 months before the tragedy happened for real.  I had tried to mine the potential psychological meaning of those dreams with my friend, but was deeply humbled and humiliated by the actual true life event that unfolded within only a few months. The world lost a very beautiful, enormously talented, artistic, bright soul that day in my friend. Her sister had suffered from Down Syndrom and was living in a holistic minded community where she had learned more independence and ease of movement. On our very first encounter, Akiko had penetrated my eyes, when all of a sudden she jumped in to my arms, hugged me and kept looking, and looking and looking at, or rather inside of me, through my eyes. Surely this was a meeting of souls, totally non-verbal, but so powerful. I miss those two sisters, so unlike one another, but both having left a profound impression on me and many others no doubt.

Inside Sing-Sing prison one man found his long lost brother by the chance opening of a magazine where he discovered an article his brother had written of the two of them. I had the pleasure to help them reconnect.

Synchronicities surely have the capacity of enriching our lives. We all are familiar with those moments where we think of someone and the phone rings with them on the phone. Some of us dream, like my friend did of me, when in her dream she saw me in trouble, while in real life I was stranded on the side of the road with a blown engine as I considered calling my friend for help. Synchronicities can easily be dismissed as minor occurrences of chance, but sometimes they can change lives. In a funk with Higher Power I have dismissed and doubted their relevance. I am still feeling rebellious, or frustrated, or angry with God-dess, life, or the affairs of the world as they appear to my sensibilities. I do miss though those exhilarating moments of synchronicity as a relevant part of my life.

To be continued

Thanksgivings

1978, about 5 weeks in to my US stay, when I had no idea yet that I would make my permanent home here in the United States, I was dragged along to my very first Thanksgiving event. I was 24 years old, a vegetarian for about 6 years with a disdain for family events, meat and fast food. Here I was in the cabin of a prominent New York psychiatrist in the Poconos, stuck, waiting for that damn bird to be ready to be served already. I was hungry, everybody was hungry after the long drive out of Manhattan. I doubt anyone did actually venture out of that cabin and in to the woods We all laid around on a bed, hanging. We, meaning my mentor Alec, who had graciously offered me a place to stay, had welcomed me with open arms in to his fold of acolytes, and had insisted on my coming along. Of course I had never heard of Thanksgiving. Finally when the bird came out of the oven and was ready to be devoured, of course I abstained. There were barely any side dishes, barely a thing for me to eat. Horror of horrors, for dessert I remember those cream donuts; white flour, white sugar and lots of oil, yiks.

1984, new to Santa Fe, Marge invited us to her humble abode, a school bus converted into a mobile home that she shared with her two boys and occasional lovers. I remember Marge fiddling with a soup, adding more and more miso, but somehow just not getting it right. I felt for her, I have been there, done that - lousy cooking. Marge believed in free and open sex and I believe she messed up the mind and heart especially of her older teen aged boy pretty good. It was the eighties, times were wild and crazy for some.

2000, Paradise in the East Bay, Northern California, the pool was steaming at perfect temperature, a variety of fish were grilled, my Fufu, made from Plantein flour was ready and a dessert of tofu pudding served with soy whipped cream found delighted approval while not exactly easy on our digestion. We had a blast in the most enchanting home I ever had the good fortune to occupy. The Carriage House was converted to a European style witches den.

Overgrown with bright burgundy Bougainvillea,  with cute white lace curtains on all the little windows, a balcony that overlooked the pool surrounded by banana trees and exotic blooms.

 The sounds of the water overflowing from the hot tub in to the warm pool mixed with the distant sounds of laughter and dancing to Soucous music.

With me, my Nigerian lover and my dearest friends, many of them colleagues, with more then a few that shared my Cancer birth sign. We were in our element, an amicable lot and we really liked each other professionally and privately. Heaven, I was in heaven!

2010, Thanksgiving at home alone in the City Different in the Land of Enchantment, once again. Well, I am not alone, I got my 3 furry ones, but I am nobody's mom. I celebrated Thanksgiving with a "feast in my mouth" as Dr. Phil would say. There is nothing like oral gratification. Celebrating Thanksgiving without family stressors is nothing to sneeze at either. How I hate dysfunctional family dynamics. I had enough in my youth to last me life times. Now I have no family and no friends either.

I am grateful to still have my home, to still have some cash, to still be able to buy food, and dessert. I am grateful to have been granted an easy life in so many respects. I am grateful for all the horrors that so far have not befallen me. I am grateful for the kindnesses bestowed upon me. As when my mentor Alec offered me his home to stay and so I could find my bearings on this new and oh so different continent. As when Dietmar, a young father in Switzerland, offered me his place to stay when I, 17 years old, lost my room, because the landlady objected to the weekend stay of an American tourist during my absence. I am grateful to Dwuno who bestowed her light, her attention, her beauty and her wisdom on me and I was never to be the same again. I am especially grateful to my now deceased Mom who gave me the cash for the down payment on what has been my home now for the last 24 years. I am grateful that whatever stood between me and my Mom and my Dad dissolved before their passing, that we resolved whatever it was, and that we found peace together.

On a different note I am grateful for Tina Fey who still can give perspective to a Sarah Palin and so deservedly won the recent Mark Twain award. I am grateful to Michael Moore who endured a personal vendetta by big pharmaca and the former president, but keeps on trucking and keeps on inspiring us to take action and make a difference and believe in the power of the people, against all evidence so it seems.

Gratitude does not come easy to me, I really have to go fish to find morsels of it. I will do just that, go fish, be quiet and see what might bite and if, I then will report back.

9/15 Part IV - My Seventies

I wanted to give a bit more of a flavor of my seventies, so I dug up some old photos to share with you.

This is Alec Rubin in performance at The Theater Within in a very characteristic pose of his, focused simultaneously inward and outward, likely in process of making his artistic choices at that very moment; what feelings to follow and reveal, which to ignore.

 

Stoni, my Swiss buddy, friend and New York room mate. Later he would have his own dance company in Berlin. Together we were able to afford an apartment on the 'very lower east side' of Manhattan.

717 East 5th Street (Avenue C - D)

New York, NY 10023

A seriously rough and tough neighborhood.

This particular building resisted gentrification for long. 

Odd that later I would move in to 717 Manhattan Ave..

Out of the drab neighborhood, inside my first home of my own (Stoni, a dancer soon moved on to study Skinner Releasing Technique in Seattle) cheerful colors pleased me. 

I was happy in my abode despite the roaches that were aplenty, and one freaking rat next door.

 

What I left behind was my dear friend Joe, 

artisan, actor, and painter 

with a truly artistic, sensitive soul.

 

Here he posed for me in front of his store

with one of his own, gorgeous carpet shoulder bags 

(so like the bag that held my belongings

when I first entered the US.)

Joe was able to create anything he put his mind to, so it seemed. Joe's Creations were masterly crafted pieces of practical art, be they furnishings, as he was so generous in gifting our The Stuebli with, or clothing as with his intricate vests and house shoes or accessories like hand and shoulder bags with secret compartments created with the use of recycled silken ties.

9/15 Part III

This was to be my account about my arrival to the US. Instead, I digressed and lingered with what had come before. Why did I ever leave Zuerich and later Amsterdam?

Zurich has been named consistently as one of the world's most contented cities and certainly boasts one of the highest living standards. Why would anyone leave? I consider myself a cultural refugee and friends that immigrated like me to the US agree. We felt hampered in our development, stultified by Swiss social norms and expectation and the forever powerful push to achieve and play it safe. 

I was hooked, line and sinker, into the kind of unconventional art therapy we practiced. The idea of exploring the unconscious and bringing it up to the light in a creative, artistic, expressive form made total sense to me. What can I say, I am from the Pluto in Leo generation, the attraction was inevitable, a perfect fit. It was our anti-dot to the analytical, way too intellectual, divorced from the body, Jungian approach, prevalent then in Zuerich. It was this desire that propelled me on my search and got me, a Cancer home body to explore not the exotic East at a guru's feet in India (although I surely was tempted at various times) but brought me to Amsterdam and the US eventually. It was my conscious choice to stay rooted in a psychological, rather then a spiritual tradition and in that way to renounce the temptation of salvation through a distant exotic guru, like Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. Hey, it was the seventies, temptations were many!

I longed to fully immerse myself in those transformative processes, and so I did for my first few years in the US with Alec Rubin's Primal Theater.

9/15 Part Two

We had listened to Krishna Murti in Brockwood, England, spent a few days in London and it was time for me to leave everything I knew behind and board the cheapest flight to America. I wore my  favorite Genie pants,  created by dear Joe just for me from old soft curtains that flowed wide down my legs and gathered around my ankles. The other pair was at the bottom of my carpet shoulder bag, another work of practical art from recycled fabric by gifted Joe, a former actor turned artisan. I had perfected the art of traveling light and had become a true carpetbagger! There were two convenient outside pockets. The front one held my money,  passport, pen, special color pencils and Chinese diary, the back one held my toiletries, no room for a  hair brush, but chopsticks and a package of Miso (Barley Paste.) Little did I understand that plenty of Miso was to be had in the Asian parts of New York City.

The stewardess would come around to offer drinks and food. I did not accept. I heard them wonder out loud if maybe I was afraid of cost and if maybe I did not understand it was included in the fare. True I barely understood English and was not sure if I was expected to pay, but I also felt snobbish, as I had been eating very clean, involved with the Macrobiotic Restaurant in Amsterdam for over 2 years and limited to vegetarian fare ever since I had moved out my parent's home. I despised conventional meat based meals. Of course I also was young and anxious, in no mood to eat. Now I am old and eat any time anywhere, although I am still a snob of sorts as to the quality of food. But then I often preferred to abstain from eating for extended periods of time, especially while traveling.

When finally I arrived in the US, at Kennedy Airport, it was after midnight and the buses had stopped running. Of course I would not dream of spending my money on a cab, much less would I have known where to take it to. So I settled on one of the benches in the back, prepared to spend a few hours until the first bus would take me in to Manhattan proper. This black worker noticed me and asked where I was going to and assured me he would wake me and take me right after his shift to the first running bus. This he did and as we were crammed in early morning traffic he inquired about where exactly I was going. No idea I told him, he insisted that I must know someone in New York. So I took out my address book and showed him my only New York address, the one of my mentor/teacher. I was not even sure how, if and when I would contact Alec, but this black guy decided this was where I was to go and he would bring me there safely. He got us in to the A train that of course would not stop on W 72nd street which did not deter him, we got out and right back the other way until he safely deposited me at the proper station. All the while he would comment on my incredible calm. And he was right, I was on alert, focused and present. Say what you will about New York and black guys, but that man gave me an impressive welcome. Talk about the kindness of strangers, specifically from a black guy to a white woman, with no strings attached! He did more then got out of his way and this after a long night's work.

I was Alec's guest for several months. Barely able to speak English, I took part in an extemporaneous performance series that kept us busy most nights in to the early morning hours. I practiced the slipping in and out of altered states. Form Follows Feelings was Alec's motto and we worked hard at perfecting our form at any given moment and were diligently in the pursuit of our feelings. I practiced my Mermaid  persona at the edge of the pond in Central Park. On my way I would pass the Dakota where John and Yoko had their home. (The night of John's murder we were attending a piano concert by the amazing Keith Jarret, only blocks away.) Alec had taught at the Actor's Studio, had been a Ballet Dancer and had developed his very own style of performance art. The man had charisma with a great sense of humor. Our rehearsals were adventures in to inner space. We never knew where it would lead us and if we would have the guts to follow - all the way. We practiced our emotional vocabulary and grounded ourselves in to our bodies.

I took up Contact Improvisation a form of movement that relies on gravity and a smooth, uninterrupted flow. I gave up on Tai Chi, Chinese martial arts, too boring in comparison, so it seemed to me then. Although with my Dutch master Joe Onvlee, Tai Chi had never ever been boring, but Joe with his beer belly, greasy hair and sparkle in his eyes was extra-ordinary and employed methods by Gurdjieff that kept us on our toes, or rather in our core or Tantiem. He would yell at us: "Relax, relax, relax" and then burst out laughing. He would tell us funny stories while we had to hold our space for what seemed an eternity, with no adjustments to alleviate any discomfort. He would have us practice in front of a mirror, confusing us. He would pick a senior student to invent a form we had to follow, on the spot, as if we always had done so. Joe Onvlee was phenomenal and had an international following and was likely the first to spread Tai Chi in and through out Europe and beyond.

Yeah, it was the seventies and I had the good fortune to have come upon some charismatic folks: Dear sensitive Joe the actor turned artist and expert crafts man, the one that made it possible to leave my parent's home while I was still a student, Dwuno, the powerful and mysterious Dutch/Indonesian puppet maker, bohemian and Taoist, Joe Onvlee, the Dutch sailor with his wicked smile, that introduced Chinese martial arts to us Hippies, Paulo Knill the Swiss director of the Lesley College Theater department, who gave us absolute permission to be ourselves, even sleep through his classes in order to please ourselves rather then him the teacher. Last but not least Alec Rubin, former ballet dancer turned therapist and acting coach along the lines of the Actors Studio. I had been deeply involved with each of those gigantic souls. They each transformed my life. And all of this happened outside any formal school or institution, with no need to pledge future income for decades. With no aspirations, at least on my part, to garner certificates or titles and letters behind my name. We were driven by our own excitement only.

to be continued ...

9/15 - Part One

Today, September 15th, 32 years ago, I left Europe for good, not knowing then that I would become a US citizen and would make my home in the United States. I was a reluctant adventurer, nervous about not knowing where, what and how. I had no family or friends in the US only friends that had been to California and had experiences I too longed to have.

In the seventies, in Switzerland, most of us in our teens and twenties, we considered ourselves the alternative, the cutting edge, of what, we did not really know. We had our own tiny tea room (The Stuebli) where despite rumors, no drugs were to be had. We all sat on the floor, on carpeted pillows crafted to perfection by my dear friend Joe. We sipped herbal teas, welcomed strangers and fed them brown rice with sauteed onion rings, for free. We were anti-establishment and anti-commercialism in general and on principle. And this in the heart of Europe, Zuerich, the center of banking and commerce, and high standard of style and living.

Likely because of it, we sought community and altered states, some with and some without the help of drugs. We took delight in spontaneous humming and chanting or silences. Some of us took part in Dwuno's "Under-intellectual Gatherings." Fritze had his own essential oil line even then. I remember how this big man, with his big heart, and his big nose, which afforded him an exquisite sense of smell, introduced me to the scent of Vetivier. This happened decades before essential oils would go main stream.

Dear Fritze, then 24 years old, was also the guy that introduced us to solar power as he showed us a simple water container painted black. From him I learned, in the very early seventies, of glaciers about to melt and communities, such as San Francisco, about to drown (timing may not have been his forte.) Global Warming is not a new concept. It has been on the horizon for many decades already. Al Gore has shown us how coastal communities will likely be threatened by the warming atmosphere that melts our glaciers and gives rise to higher sea levels. (One of the saddest and most shocking things I heard was recently from a light (not exactly white) pigmented South African photographer who considers Global Warming a myth perpetuated to keep the up and coming nations down so as not to permit them the same opportunities the western world already exploited!)

Fritze played an important role in Speak Out, an organization by youth for youth in trouble, with the law or drugs. Speak Out had it's outreach center in old town among the whores that then still were able to work the streets day and night. Some of those at risk youths got a chance at intervention in a therapeutic community setting in the country. It was the early seventies, a time for experimentation, for shedding social roles and 'jumping the system' (as we would say in Hakomi Therapy terminology.) 

Every New Year, for some unknown reason, we watched Easy Rider (of course I never ever dreamed that I would make my home near Taos where good parts of this movie were shot.) We read Carlos Castaneda's first book in it's boot legged print in German. Books on Massage and Bioenergetics followed. Carlos from South America showed up and with him we had our own  Bioenergetics Thearpist (young and sexy) that helped us breath right through our own personal blockades. We even took a workshop with an Esalen Massage Therapist given at our 5 bedroom apartment. Paulo Knill, Director then of the Theater Department at the liberal arts Lesley College in Boston would inspire us with his weekly Thursday morning classes, where I first learned the basics of Contact Improvisation, of trusting the ground we stood and rolled on. We learned to engage our core muscles and go with the flow while we were free to feel our feelings. Paulo had embraced the principles of Primal Therapy. Primal scream boxes popped up in attics and cellars all over. We were intent on liberating the inner hurt child by feeling our feelings and working through our primal pains. By embodiment of our  injuries we hoped to transform ourselves from victims in to empowered, creative, artistic, fully alive human beings.  Those were powerful and transformative and today I would say also strangely addictive processes.

We listened to Leonhard Cohen, Cat Stevens, The Moody Blues, Pink Floyd and later John and Yoko, to name only a few, but most often engaged with spontaneous acoustic music wherever it erupted, often played on a guitar, with a sitar thrown in for good measure, sometimes accompanied by a flute that would soar up high and not to forget Bongos of all sizes to be pounded upon. Yeah, even I would wander those ancient streets of old town after midnight. I would softly play my little wooden recorder and felt an alienation that strangely suited me, that seemed to set me apart from main stream. 

We shopped, when we could afford it, at Mister Natural, our first alternative health food store. Dwuno would severely reprimand us when we brought conventional commercial brown rice to our tea room. In the early mornings I would walk down the hill with an aluminum (I am afraid those were the kinds used then) kettle of fresh whole milk in hand for our Chai of the day or rather night. I have fond memories of those very early and very late peaceful times on ancient, cobble stoned, narrow, rivulet-like streets.  I had been liberated only recently from an ordinary, somewhat stultifying Swiss childhood. Times seemed sweet and and full of promise. 

In search of further altered, exalted states I departed from Zuerich and later Amsterdam to eventually arrive in New York, the United States exactly 32 years ago to this day.

Continued with Part Two 

Unsolicited Advice #6

Learn the difference between a response and a reaction!

Dr. Kaushik

I must credit Dr. Kaushik with alerting me to the difference of a response versus a reaction.
 

It was the seventies, I was still in my teens, Dr. Kaushik had just started to travel the world teaching his insights to those that would listen. I had just moved in to a farm house with a huge attic out in the Swiss, very pretty countryside. Dr. Kaushik came to hold his seminar in our attic. It was all very exciting. An international group of young attractive world travellers came to camp out with this guru, or master from India. My mentor Dwuno placed Dr. Kaushik's teaching to a similar level of enlightenment as Krishnamurti's, a very high endorsement. So happily I sat at this man's feet along with everyone else and listened. I was young and in serious trouble with my parents. Eventually I got up the courage to ask about my situation at home. His answer: "Don't react!"

An automatic reaction is a far cry from a measured response. Mature, responsible human beings nurture the ability to respond, rather then react! I will always feel gratitude for Dr. Kaushik's teachings.

Mentor

I was introduced to Dwuno on a cobble stone street in old town Zuerich. Her silvery hair hung over her back, her cheeks pronounced, her eyes dark, deep, large and full of mischief, her clothes seemingly home made, a tunic of sorts hung of her voluptious body, her feet stuck in sandals she had painted with sacred designs of her own pleasure. I was 19, Dwuno could have been my Mom, but then she could not. Dwuno gathered us in to "under-intellectual" Sunday gatherings. It was the seventies, meaning the sixties for us in Switzerland. Dwuno introduced me to an aspect of my self I did not know existed. A state of being, a state of bliss, a state of wholeness and movement with no intent. Dwuno, exotic, dramatic, stunningly beautiful was my very first mentor. I owe her, the world, a gift in kind.