Through these hills I am walking
In search for my healing and
for guidance by God
Or anyone out there,
who please could just help me
Down these rivers I follow
The stream going upwards
Wading through sorrow
To wash my pain away
Oh, over these mountains
I carry this shipload, my burden
The burden of a thousand cultures
Destroyed by the misery of stones
Who else could please save me
And lead me to tomorrow
To reach down within me
And bless me with rain
These teardrops are falling
Through skin, bone and marrow
Make strings full of joyment
And laughter today
From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By KiKi TOAO
I have been having a strong notion of already getting to know this man, his daily attitude and behaviour, temperament, sense of humor, uplifting presence, knowledge and caretaking mentality, plus the sacrifices he is, in his turn, already making:
Painting the kitchen cabinets.
His insecure indecisiveness about whether to choose gold to cover the typical American pinewood doors with.
This man knows an artist who is very, VERY particular about home decoration will be living with him very soon.
Admittedly very cute, but terribly annoying.
I was laying with my head flat faced in a pillow while Rombout was sitting on top of me, and I thought:
‘Yeh. You know what?!
SURE baby, paint the fuckers gold.
For God’s sake. JEEZ!’
What to do with the decorative elements.
‘What? Do it yourself!’
Nooooooo, he wanted me to do it.
I received a mental projection of Japanese style painted branches and leafs, with colored accents in black, red and white.
I agreed it would for sure look amazing on the golden doors, and yes, I admitted I am the one who knows what she’s doing.
But you know, I was kind of in the middle of something; Rombout was now twisting my right arm in a somewhat uncomfortable position, and my shoulder cracked.
The negotiation was going so fast, I at first hardly recognised it for what it was and especially, whom with.
I was being overwhelmed with this image of very ugly kitchen cabinet doors, however, and I recognised them from the pictures I had seen on his Instagram account.
And I thought:
Usually he’d inquire first what I’m doing, who I’m with, etcetera, or he’d just drop in unannounced, out of body, la-dee-dah-dee, just like that as if it’s the natural order of things, and then just start meddling with everything as if he fucking owns the place.
But now I was just seeing those damn hideous pinewood doors with my third eye, and the issue seemed kind of very urgent:
A man in distress about what colors to pick!
It all went so fast I failed to be assertive and tell him:
‘Baby, you are disturbing just a tiny little bit because I am receiving a Shiatsu massage right here, about, – how far would it be? -, 10.000 kilometers away from you?
Could it just please wait until a somewhat more convenient moment?’.
But you know, he’d probably have said:
Because that’s what he’s like, so that wouldn’t have made any difference at all.
I gave in and said:
‘Sure. FINE! I’ll do it!’.
For crying out loud. Really.
I started laughing.
Rombout inquired what was so funny, now folding and stretching my legs, and I said I would tell him later.
I was in such a relaxed state, I figured the dialogue was not just something coming from my wishful imagination.
And I am used to these mental projections coming in so strong from or enhanced by Spirit communication, so I thought it must had been real.
Reinvigorated by Rombout’s massage I was afterwards lying on the couch, letting what I had experienced sink in.
I giggled joyfully amused and felt humorously irritated, and I considered taking repercussions.
A shaman woman’s gotta do what a shaman woman’s gotta do!
I told Rombout about my experience, and his first response to that was concern, to which he added this wasn’t good for me at all.
But when I told him about my naughty little plan he immediately started laughing out loud and said:
‘Good idea. Go on then.’
For quite a long time I had been simply frightened of even thinking about visiting his Instagram profile again, but now I felt more than a hundred percent confident, and challenged to the max.
I thought about it for an extra thirty seconds, then took a deep breath, and went for it.
I had to unblock him first, then I sent the following message:
‘Could you please do me a favor and make up your own goddamn mind about the color of your kitchen cabinets?
I was just receiving a good relaxing massage’.
After, I blocked him again, and tested with Rombout’s phone if people still receive your messages if you block them.
And so, there you go, I just broke the mold by solving an average daily domestic issue, partially telepathically through the spiritual ether, partially through our so beloved convenience of social media texting.
A harmless leap of faith this time. Phew.
Main reason for blocking him is that, even if he would respond to my text, I don’t want to be communicating online with him anymore;
I am so done with it.
I want him on my doorstep, for real, and nothing else.
My self respect and borders as a woman are overruling my longing for acknowledgement of and proof for my ideas about what’s going on, for that matter.
And just now, the morning after, I was contemplating my optimism, faith and loyalty, and I have to admit I am awfully amazed with myself, with how I am expressing such strong motivations by my seemingly premature, however clearcut, decision making and open communication.
Because here’s a woman who has made up her mind, – a year ago already! -, and nothing, absolutely nothing, has changed in that.
For my willingness to live by the principles of unconditional love and trust in Spirit guidance, for believing in love at first sight and taking responsibility and action out of sheer enthusiasm, I have asked myself so many times during these past twelve months:
‘Am I weird for being this way?’.
To which I received a straight up, blunt answer this morning:
‘What makes YOU so goddamn unique?’.
And I imagine this kind of rejoinder to be coming straight from him.
And while I was just smoking my tobacco roll up I thought:
‘He is so right’.
And I am positive we would both agree on the idea that this is exactly what we would both describe as ‘God in ourselves’, that’s giving us the power, courage and strength to go about our lives in such a manner.
From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By Kiki Toao
Mature before Love was even invented,
The Beast was
High on speed
A wounded heart
Amidst the soil of a broken home
Shattered glass everywhere
On television a woman shouted:
Fucking KUT Nazis!
Always spoiling good entertainment!”
I believe she was Dutch, or something,
and she looked awfully similar to me
So, so many
Particles and pieces
Broken glass to be mended
My broken heart
In the midst, however
Of this Holy Night and Wishful Moon
We expressed our deepest desires
And you said
You wanted to Learn
What You Want
And The Beast spoke, lowering Her voice:
“Isn’t it anyone’s deepest desire
to express a lung full Spell
under the Shine of Darkness
of a Wishful Moon?”
From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By KiKi TOAO
When the Beast of Creation wags its mastodonthic tail, what am I but a seed hair in the wind? And while it walks past, we’d do best by honoring it while we have the opportunity, because these moments are rare and we should cherish them while they last. We are sharing them here and now, in the midst of our living room in broad, screaming daylight.
For a couple of hours, everything screams C.E.R.E.M.O.N.Y.
How little it has to do with waving feathers and droning prayers.
I’m sitting here, gasping for air while my face is being pulled off.
I’m clawing at the air, watching the tips of my fingers being turned into pure frequency and becoming one with the leafs on the tree.
The Beast of Creation is walking past.
I look up at its terrifying beauty, blinded by its lightning presence, wishing it was dark but the light keeps crashing in. Every step the Beast’s paws take slams every moment into one massive archaic vision, every single one of them being the kind temples have been built for. Graphic, honey rated patterns, splashing into colourful Beings of all Times. Beings, – older, much much older -, than any living creature on this planet, are showing themselves to me in all their intrinsicness.
Archaic. Archaic. ARCHAIC.
The word keeps repeating itself into one gigantic, magnificent, excruciatingly vivid notion of What It Is.
One last slam of the Beast’s tail shakes me back to consciousness.
I’m sitting here, in this safe haven we created for ourselves, down on my knees.
It is not a posture of submission. I’m simply wondering how I could ever have thought I knew anything, anything at all, while the tears are running from my face. I am in pure awe, while I’m observing my knowledge being crumbled, torn apart as if it were a piece of knitting, and being rearranged.
I’m watching it happen, and the only thing I’m able to think of and say out loud is how I know it will change everything, if only I allow it to happen; just open my eyes and take it all in as a wordless teaching.
It changes the posture of my body, into a totally different attitude.
My hand loosely in front of my chest, I’m looking down in search of an expression for an emotion no word has been invented for, or it may have been forgotten and is longing to be reborn: The Sacred.
What I had so far been feeling writhing underneath, is now violently passing through me, obliterating all that I thought I knew.
If only I were capable of capturing this very experience into one brief moment of sharing it with you, enabling you to see it, to feel it, experience it, here, all at once, right here and now, and condense it into this one, tiny seed hair in my hand, my task would be complete.
If only I could.
We would then set it forth on its path, together, by blowing it away and watch it being caught by the wind. While watching it move up high into the sky, we would know, from here, the cycle would start all over again.
From here, we would be forever longing for the opportunity to rise again; to relive this very moment, of experiencing it, together.
From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse and Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By Kiki Toao
Raw and unvalidated data from my diary:
The shamanic process.
Where does it leave me in the equation?
A continuous shift of perspective, like discovering a machine’s purpose by pushing its buttons. But I am the one whose buttons are being pushed.
*beep* What do you think about this concept?
*beep* How do you feel about this proposal?
*beep* What would you say if your purpose looked a little something like this?
Constant contextualizing and negotiating, evaluating and scrutinizing.
What leaves me (at times literally) breathless is: the process doesn’t necessarily have regard for my personal integrity, my moral/ethical values, sometimes not even for my well-being and daily life.
I, – me, myself, and I – am the one who is the safeguard of my intentions, the gatekeeper of the channel I seem to be.
To do good seems to be shamanic common sense, it seems so obvious within the mainstream concept of spirituality.
However, I am always being confronted with the opposite.
Archaic principles are pushing themselves through me, and it’s hard to describe them in comprehensible, human language, but I can feel them writhing underneath the surface, like some ancient technological mechanism, forcing me to seek refuge in metaphorical expressions.
Writing poetry therefore is a natural response to the process.
It is by discovering and eventually describing my role as facilitator in the process, I am establishing my relationship with The Sacred.
But (hang on, wait a minute): what is The Sacred?
All I know (or rather: feel) is: what has been defined as sacred by our world’s religions, are diluted, meager, compromised representations of what it is, resulting in a set of rules saying: What It’s Supposed To Be.
Well, it isn’t supposed to be anything, it just IS.
And then, the following, everlasting, returning questions are:
Is that so?
Is it really?
Guiding me back to my initial contemplation:
Where does it leave me? Who am I? What am I doing?
The wavering trepidation in there, the searching, the authenticating;
welcome to my shamanic loophole, ladies and gentlemen.
And every time I’m wondering: what is my conclusion, is there a point to be made?
To only find there ultimately are no points, no conclusions to be made.
There only is: The Expression.
I’m starting to understand why mathematicians and physicists are seeking to capture everything into one single, elegant formula.
I am not equipped with such skills – art is my language.
From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’
Love, Kiki Toao
At times I look at my life and I can’t help but to feel like a bystander observing a spectacle of a playground that’s been run over by some bulldozer.
And I’m watching all the kids crying, their parents waving their angry fists in indignance while one of them is shouting:
“What the HELL was that?!”
Then some skinny male authority figure with a pockmarked face responds by saying:
“Oh, don’t freak out! It’s only Shamanism.
Nothing to worry about.
Move along people, nothing to see here”.
From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’
– By Kiki Toao
The last therapist I had the not-so-pleasure of talking to looked at me warily, while shifting her jaws manically from left to right (clearly on her own meds – excuse me, but it takes one to know one) and said (rolling her eyes from me to the ceiling, back and bouncing off the walls):
“Miss, what you are suffering from are merely practical problems.
We can not help you”.
Her skinny, super shiny blond apprentice nodded at me in pitiful agreement.
In a blink of a second I shifted from wanting to smack her in the face to embracing the bright, warm light offering to gain control of my mind which was envisioning how the camera in my soap opera would cut to a shot of the box of tissues falling off the pinewood table, accompanied by splattering noises and a dash of red here and there.
I squinted briefly, in final realization of what was exactly wrong here in this motion picture, and put a polite smile on my face to confront these people sitting there in front of me with. I stood up, stuck out my hand and said:
“Thank you m’am, miss”, and walked out the door calmly.
Walking through the corridors I let the years of sadness, frustration and confusion slip off my body and mind to leave it there, once and for all, on the linoleum floor of this building harbouring so-called mental health care.
Standing outside, looking up at the building, its windows shimmering in the February sun, I recalled the words of the shaman I had visited earlier that week:
“You can become a shaman”.
So I became one, that day.