The philosophy

Anaqmiski means honey from the sky in Quechua, a name born in the Andes and that has become a bridge between two lands, Peru and Brittany. It carries something larger than I would have ever imagined.
Anaqmiski has become a philosophy of becoming, of bee-ing. It’s the practice of noticing the threads that connect everything: the bees and the birth, the body and the soil, the sacred and the everyday. Nothing here stands alone. A hive is a community. A postpartum is a season. A body remembers. Anaqmiski is the space where all of that is held together, fully and all under one sky.

This didn’t arrive as an idea first. It came from a life that kept circling back to the same questions, until the pattern became impossible to ignore.

Where it began

I’ve never experienced my life as a series of separate chapters. Looking back, it reads more like one long apprenticeship in the same handful of questions: how do I stay useful? How do I stay real to my ever-growing self? How may I be in service to others and to this beautiful planet ? How do I keep listening, when the world keeps asking me to hurry?

I grew up moving between cultures, form my first memories in Japan, China, Romania, Paris then later studying a bunch of stuff in Brussels, Beijing, Australia, raised by a family that treated the whole world as one large, textured neighborhood. That early exposure gave me something I still lean on today: a kind of instinctive comfort with difference, and a genuine curiosity and fascination about the stories other people carry. Their uniqueness, their pearls of wisdom.
In my teens, I split my time between big cities and total wilderness, and I noticed early how differently I felt in each. The cities offered plenty of distraction, but the quiet, wild moments were the ones that stayed with me. I kept being pulled back toward nature, toward whatever it was that had made us, fed us, and kept us breathing, even as I felt, paradoxically, quite far from it.
In my twenties, that pull took me to Papua New Guinea, where I built a coffee business and ran three cafés. It taught me how to build something from nothing, how to lead by showing up rather than by title, and how to keep going in conditions that were often complicated and unstable. Those are skills I still use today, just toward a very different kind of work.
At 27, I traveled to Peru, and something in me recognized Cusco the moment I arrived: the mountains, the history, the way community was woven into daily life. I left my everything behind and stayed. What followed was a full year of quiet, walking the high Andes and the Sacred Valley, sitting with long silences, letting old layers fall away. It’s the closest I’ve come to starting over, and it’s where the bees first found me.
I can’t fully explain what happens when I’m with them, even now. Time changes shape. My senses sharpen while my mind goes quiet. There’s a kind of mutual attention, I watch them, and somehow, I’m also being watched, read, included. They became my teacher before I ever called myself a beekeeper.
I built a small honey shop in Ollantaytambo, poured myself into it, and then watched it not survive the pandemic. I won’t pretend that didn’t hurt. But grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t have to be the last word. Landing back in Brittany with the world in chaos, I chose to let that loss become a doorway instead of a wall: I turned toward the wild Breton coast I’d grown up near, and toward the bees again, this time in a new landscape, learning an entirely different relationship with the land. I’m still apprenticing in bee venom therapy today, guided by mentors in both Peru and Romania, one more thread in the same ongoing education.

Somewhere in that same period, motherhood entered the story too, and with it, an entirely new teacher. Supporting my own postpartum, and later training to support others through theirs, showed me something the bees had already been telling me in their own way: that healing isn’t linear, that rest is not a luxury but a biological requirement, and that a body left undisturbed will usually find its own way back to balance, if it’s given the conditions to do so.
That’s the thread running under everything gathered here. Beekeeping, postpartum doula work, and the somatic therapy training I’m currently pursuing aren’t three separate careers stitched together. They’re one path, still unfolding, a convergence, not a reinvention. Each one taught me to slow down, pay closer attention, pay attentions to Nature’s breathing through the seasons, and trust what the body, a hive’s, a mother’s, my own, is already trying to say.

Kermenguy & the Sacred Valley

Anaqmiski has two homes. Kermenguy, a family manor on Brittany’s wild northern coast, is where the bees live, where the doula and somatic work happens, and where the land itself, buckwheat fields, sea-facing hedgerows, sets the pace of the seasons. The Sacred Valley of Cusco is where this all began, and where a long-term vision is still quietly taking root.

Both places show up throughout this site, not as separate destinations, but as the two poles this whole practice moves between.

Roots in Brittany, passing it on

The last couple of years have kept me mostly rooted in France, training and studying, and it’s here in Brittany, at Kermenguy, that this next chapter is really taking shape.

Kermenguy has become more than a home base, it’s where I’ve started thinking seriously about what it means to hand all of this down. The Breton black bee, Apis mellifera mellifera, is endangered, fewer than 5% of hives in France still hold this pure, native strain, and every season I spend tending them here feels like a small act of protecting something that could otherwise slowly disappear.

That instinct to pass things on extends to the next generation, quite literally. I love bringing children into contact with the hives, not to make beekeepers of them necessarily, but to give them one real, embodied encounter with how a living system works: patience, attention, reciprocity. There is something quite wonderful to watch the children’s first encounter with the bees; it is a remembering of our own Nature, that capacity to marvel at the Creation.. I already offer a beekeeping introduction program for local schools here in the area, you can see photos and read more about it on the Honey page.

None of this feels separate from the doula work, or the somatic training, or the honey. It’s the same practice, really, showing up, paying attention, and trusting that something wants to keep living, if we let it.

Where I am now

I still move between Kermenguy and the Sacred Valley of Cusco, and expect to for as long as I’m doing this work. Peru holds its own plans and projects, quietly taking shape alongside everything happening here in Brittany. More on that, in time. I work in French, English, and Spanish.

I also still teach a small online course, Sacred Bee Wisdom, [you can find it here].

Thank you for reading this far. This philosophy, and this story, are both still being written, as it always is.

Hasta siempre,
Olga