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.