Kung Fu Panda is one of my favourite films. I’ve watched it more times than I can count — enchanted by its humour, its wisdom, and the idea that what’s meant for you will find you. So when I joined a kung fu school, everything seemed to fall into place. I loved the training. I worked hard. I gave things up for it. I told myself: this is the way. But the path isn’t always a straight line. Sometimes it curves like a river. Sometimes it carries you somewhere you never meant to go. When things eventually fell apart (there are no accidents!), I followed a wild instinct and stepped into a capoeira class. I moved. I sang. I played. And something shifted. I realised I am not a panda. Kung fu is a beautiful art, but it never quite reached all the branches of my oak tree. Capoeira did. Now I’m learning to fight and to dance, to sing and to fall, to move in rhythm with others and with myself. It’s not about mastery, but about resonance. What feeds my practice, feeds my art. What lights me up, lights the path.

Retreats are wonderful things. I mean the ones where a bunch of people go to a beautiful location for an intensive experience of something or other, with lots of togetherness. I’ve been on quite a few. From summer art camps to meditation/yoga/martial arts retreats across Europe. Now I’m finally ready to stop forcing myself to sign up for them. You see, being in a group drains my energy and if I’m deprived of the time I need to restore that energy, I get ill. Surrounded by so many happy campers, I’ve always felt there must be something wrong with me. If only I would be stronger, less sensitive, more relaxed, I would be able to keep up with the others. But there’s nothing wrong with me. Where does it say that growth (or enlightenment) can only be found in this intensive group setting? I understand now that just because something is good, it does not automatically mean that it is good for me. To each her own way and her own prayer. Or as a beautiful voice once whispered in my ear: you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. For me that is doing a little practice down by the river every day.

When the world feels too much, I return to the ground – feet on the earth below, arms open to the sky above. This is how I remember that I belong, that I am part of the living current moving through all things. From a young age, I trained as a dancer, and later began practicing yoga and meditation rooted in Buddhism. These were steady foundations – strong, sacred, and disciplined – but over time, as my perspective deepened, so did my practice. My path gradually led me toward movement meditation inspired by Daoist philosophy, and into the realm of meditative dance. Now, I let the quiet intelligence of my body guide me. It’s no longer about performance or perfection, but about presence – about feeling, sensing, and allowing. I follow the rhythm within and around me. I let myself be swayed by the wind – unforced, soft, and alive. When I move, I don’t try to shape the moment, but to be shaped by it. This practice grounds me, heals me, and brings me home to myself.