Grab a coffee, this is a long post......☕ I have a confession to make. I cry. Often. And not just at the big, obvious things, the tragedies that make the headlines, the disasters that flash across our screens. I cry at the small, quiet, everyday moments that reveal the brokenness of our world. I cry watching a news report about a child who went to bed hungry. I cry reading a social media post about someone who was treated with cruelty simply for being who they are. I cry listening to a podcast about injustice, about ecosystems collapsing, about people fleeing their homes while the rest of us scroll past. And sometimes, I cry at the sheer weight of it all. The tears come unbidden. They well up in my throat, burn behind my eyes, and spill down my cheeks. And in those moments, I feel something visceral, a deep, aching sadness in my chest. A grief that is not just mine, but collective. A sorrow for the state of our world, for the dreadful, unspeakable things that we, all of us, collectively allow to continue. We see it. We know it. And yet, what do we do? We turn a blind eye. We scroll past. We change the channel. We tell ourselves it's too big, too complex, too far away. We shrug our shoulders and say, "I wish I could do something." We wring our hands and mutter, "Someone really should help." We post a black square, a broken heart emoji, a prayer emoji, and then we carry on with our day. And so it continues. The suffering, the exploitation, the destruction. The endless cycle of outrage followed by apathy, of tears followed by silence. But here is the question that keeps me awake at night.... Is our crying a beginning or an ending? Is it just an emotional release, a momentary purge that makes us feel better without changing anything? Or is it the first crack in our armour, the first stirring of something that might actually lead to action? Because I'll be honest... I am tired of just crying. I am tired of feeling sad and then doing nothing. I am tired of the "I wish" that never becomes "I will."

Hi Everyone 👋 A few evenings ago, I found myself walking down a familiar hill as the sun began its slow descent. The light was golden, the air was still, and for a brief moment, everything felt beautifully ordinary. Then my gaze fell upon the local middle school. Its iron gates, those tall, unyielding, black metal bars were drawn shut, padlocked, and silent. The children were gone. The playground was empty. And yet, I couldn't stop staring at those gates. Because it struck me, right there on that quiet street, that those gates are not just gates. They are a mirror. We begin our lives inside such gates. We are dropped off at school, handed a timetable, and told to sit still, comply, and stay within the lines. We learn early that there are boundaries we must not cross, questions we must not ask, and dreams we must quietly shelve because they don't fit the curriculum. The gate locks behind us, and we don't even notice. Then we graduate, step out of one gate, and walk straight into the next. We find a partner, fall in love, and before we know it, we are caged within the unspoken rules of that relationship—the compromises, the expectations, the roles we must play to keep the peace. We go to work, and there we are again: a desk, a title, a salary, and a set of invisible bars that dictate our time, our energy, and our sense of self-worth. We climb the ladder, but the ladder is inside a cage. We buy a house, and suddenly we are caged by a mortgage. We scroll our phones, and we are caged by algorithms designed to keep us anxious, addicted, and endlessly comparing. And eventually, we die, and we are placed in a box, lowered into the ground, and the gates close one final time. But here is the uncomfortable truth I have come to realize: the gates are not the real problem. The real cage is the one we cannot see. It is made of our beliefs, our fears, our conditioning, and our desperate need for approval. It is built from the stories we have been telling ourselves since we were old enough to listen—stories about who we should be, what we should want, and how we should appear to the world.

So, so sorry everyone, but I needed to cancel today’s live call as I have severe stomach pains 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻.

Hi Everyone 👋 For years, I operated under the illusion that doing more, achieving more, acquiring more, and even giving more, was the surest path to feeling whole. I thought if I could just stack enough accomplishments, enough good deeds, or enough spiritual milestones, I would finally arrive at the door of liberation. But I’ve come to see that the very act of grasping, even at something as noble as enlightenment, can become its own cage. There’s a subtle trap in our beautifully misguided human urge to “do.” It’s the belief that the doing itself is what will save us. We attach to outcomes, to recognition, to the feeling of being needed, and to the security of our carefully curated lives. But liberation doesn’t live in the accumulation of experiences; it lives in the profound release of them. This is where the practice of non-acquisition becomes revolutionary. It’s not about inaction, but a radical reorientation of why we act. When we approach a task, a conversation, or even our own healing with a spirit of non-acquisition, we are no longer desperate for a specific result. We are simply present. We offer our gifts without the need to own them, and we participate in life without the hidden clause that says, “I must get something out of this.” Contrast this with the relentless energy of greed and attachment. When we are attached, every action we take tightens the noose. We attempt to control, to hold on, to manipulate outcomes in our favour. We obsess over the “right” path, the “right” relationship, or the “right” material success. The more we do from that place, the more knots we tie. We become architects of our own prisons, building walls with bricks of anxiety and mortar of “what if.” True liberation, on the other hand, is the feeling of dancing in the rain without worrying about keeping your clothes dry. It’s the freedom of writing without obsessing over being read, of loving without demanding to be loved back, of working without needing to be recognised for the work. It’s a quiet surrender to the flow of life, trusting that the universe knows where it’s going, even when our maps are obsolete.

A quick look at the bedrooms at the La Bichurie accommodation https://youtu.be/kudIXps4B5E