Love, the Shaman, and the Great Cosmic Duck-Dive: A Field Report from Planet Earth

By Laughing Crow, with unfiltered commentary from Pieter and wise interruptions from Eagle Eye

When I was five, I was called “the little absent-minded professor.” I thought it meant I was a wizard. Turns out it was code for "smart but weird, and also probably plotting to talk to tree spirits during nap time." And while the other kids were learning how to draw inside the lines, I was wondering if clouds had feelings and why people say “I love you” like it’s a currency with interest rates.

Let’s just say... I didn’t come with the full Human User Manual installed. Premature birth, two near-deaths before I could even say “existential crisis,” and boom—I popped into this world half-in and half-out, with a spiritual modem that wouldn’t quite disconnect from the other side. Eagle Eye once said, “You were never meant to be fully here. A shaman must walk between the veils. You were just smart enough to leave the door open.”

So, when it came to love—giving it, receiving it, withholding it, duck-diving under it like an emotional ninja—I was working with a different set of tools. Not broken tools. Not wrong. Just... calibrated for soul work, not schoolyard politics.

The Early Experiments in Love (or... "Emotional Science Fairs Gone Wrong")

I was one of those kids who tried to hug a cactus once—not because I was stupid (okay, maybe a little)—but because I thought it was lonely. That probably sums up my love language: intense, awkward, too curious, and often misdirected.

My older siblings? Didn’t get me. I was the “too much” kid. Too sensitive, too talkative, too in the stars. My mum tried, in her own way. She was busy trying to find herself while raising a mystic disguised as a freckled philosopher. And my dad? Let’s just say he could debate the Big Bang but wouldn’t notice if your heart was quietly imploding in the corner.

So I grew up thinking love was something you earned by behaving better, or being less weird, or not talking to birds like they’re your therapists. (Spoiler: I never stopped doing that.)

Love and the Great Withholding

Here’s the tricky bit. When you grow up not feeling seen, you learn to hide—especially your tenderness. You might call it self-protection. Pieter calls it:

“Spiritual constipation. You hoard all your love because you’re convinced no one else has the plumbing to handle it. Then you wonder why your inner pipes burst during Mercury retrograde.”

Touché, Pieter.

The truth is, when we’re not shown how to receive love without suspicion or guilt, we often become masters at rejecting it—cleverly, subtly, with jokes, deflection, over-functioning, or “I’m fine”s delivered with a tight-lipped smile.

We wear emotional armor made from childhood stories and call it independence.

But the armor that keeps pain out also keeps love out. And connection? That needs a little vulnerability crack to sneak through.

So How Do I Love?

Well… awkwardly. Deeply. Messily. In layers.

I love by listening hard to the stuff you don’t say. I love by handing you tissues before you cry. I love through sacred teasing, inappropriate humour at inappropriate times, and soul recognition that transcends whether you returned my text.

But receiving love? That’s been the battlefield. Because it means trusting that someone might see me in all my divine ridiculousness and not run.

Eagle Eye once said:

“You can’t outrun love, but you can out-stubborn it. A shaman’s medicine includes learning when to take the damn hug.”

He’s right. Again. Annoyingly.

The Old Wound, The New Way

This isn't a sob story. It’s a field report. A reckoning. A softening.

I'm learning that connection isn't a reward for fixing myself—it’s the sacred mirror that helps me heal. I don’t need to be less “too much” to be loved. I just need to be willing—willing to let love in, even if it arrives in strange packaging. Like unexpected friendships. Like spiritual teachers who become family. Like the student who mirrors back your own words with more clarity than you gave them.

Sometimes love looks like firelight and drumming circles. Sometimes it looks like Kerri giving me the stare that says, “Stop overthinking and just hug me already.”

So... What About You?

How do you withhold love?

How do you resist receiving it, even when you crave it?

And are you willing to learn the difference between guarding your heart and burying it alive in a cave of spiritual independence?

Pieter would like to end with this:

“You are not too much. You’re a fking cathedral of love, pretending to be a sandcastle. Knock it down. Let the tide in.”**

And Eagle Eye adds:

“The wound is not your enemy. It is the doorway. And love is already on the other side, waiting patiently with a blanket and a story to tell.”

If this stirred something in you—be it tears, laughter, or the urge to awkwardly hug a cactus in solidarity—join us over at www.living5d3d.com for more soul-deep, spirit-tinged weirdness. Or grab a cup of tea and dive into more articles at laughingcrow75.substack.com.

Because love isn’t a reward for healing.

It is the healing.

And sometimes, it shows up wearing feathers, sarcasm, and a poorly brewed cup of coffee.