The shift has happened: it was you.
Catch up to your wave and ride it through the ocean of Presence. No need to appropriate the culture of an ancient tribe. The hollow in your chest is the hut of initiation.
Come here and breathe, be the secret circle. Find the Sukka inside. Celebrate your harvest, where the naked and the poor feast on your grapes of prayer.
Breathe. These lungs are the shamanic drum. The medicine woman’s rattle is the ululation of light, kything your throat-song, “I Am.”
The real Ayahuasca, the true Soma, the strong wine of visionary communion, is the nectar of consciousness, brewed in its own Self-glowing. Chemicals are only broken mirrors.
Be your own totem animal, whose form is this inhalation, the diamond spider on the thread of your spine. Visit yourself in dreams. Be your ancestor, Grandfather Now.
Why imitate the atavistic tribal cult? Your very heartbeat embraces the silence that was already here when the first warrior emerged with her song.
Vision yourself, reveal yourself, anoint yourself. Be the rainbow-winged antler-hooded priest, dancing over the bonfire in the wildest part of the forest.
There is a clearing, a fire-pit by a secret spring, sung in sacred myths, a place you’re not allowed to map or tell about: that would mean death. Death of your mind, death of your past. That’s why the Chosen, who choose themselves, tell about it!
Be your own way there. Be the path you follow, into the fruitful wildness of your body.
Picture: The Gundestrup cauldron, 200 BC. Celtic God Cernannos, the Celtic Shiva, Lord of the Creatures, who is the Shaman of pure consciousness in each of us.
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