About me

How my story goes...

For more than forty years, I have lived with reading—not only books, but the world itself. I studied German literature and education, worked across different professional fields, raised five sons, and together with my husband founded a literary hotel: a place where writers, ideas, and conversations about art, language, and lived experience could meet. It became a space where literature opened outward into music, theatre, painting, and, increasingly, into the quiet discipline of healing.

My work has always been guided by a simple but demanding conviction: the world is readable. Not only through texts, but through landscapes, weather, gestures, bodies, coincidences, and the subtle grammar of nature. The sky has syntax. Places carry meaning. Plants, patterns, and even chance encounters form a language of signs. Whether in nature writing, philosophy, or the old traditions of signature reading, I learned to approach these phenomena as coherent systems—languages that can be learned, interpreted, and understood like words on a page.

At the centre of this understanding is narrative. We do not merely describe reality; we live inside stories. And these stories are never arbitrary. They are structured, often hidden systems of meaning that shape perception, decision, and fate. Whether in personal biography, collective history, or natural observation, every experience belongs to a larger narrative field. To read well is therefore to recognise pattern, continuity, rupture—and to ask what story is being told, and whether it is still true.

This insight also transformed my own writing. At one point I became blocked in my attempt to finish a novel, until I realised that the obstacle was not language but narrative itself: the story I was telling about my own life had become too narrow to carry the work forward. To change the text, I had to change the underlying narrative of who I was. From this emerged a deeper understanding: identity is not fixed, but composed through interpretation, and interpretation can be revised.

My practice today grows from this intersection of literature, philosophy, and healing. It is shaped by over 4,000 books—each offering a distinct lens on being—by homeopathy and Paracelsus’ doctrine of signatures, and above all by C. G. Jung, whose work continues to illuminate the symbolic structures of psyche and world. Poetry remains at the centre: the art of holding multiple layers of reality at once, of letting the visible and invisible speak together.

In conversation and reflection, I work with these threads as one might work with a text: asking questions that reveal structure, opening space for re-reading, and supporting the emergence of a more coherent and livable story. Because narratives are never random. They are living architectures of meaning—and when they shift, so does the world we are able to inhabit.