From Cigarettes to the Sacred Pipe 4: When Tobacco Whispers in the Ear
- Lorraine
- Aug 13
- 7 min read
This article is part of a series dedicated to transforming the relationship with tobacco and the encounter with the sacred pipe.
You can read the previous articles:
…and soon discover the next article.
From the cigarette to the sacred pipe the signs of tobacco and the inner calling
For several months, a deep desire had been rising within me.
Like a silent, insistent call I could no longer ignore.
The idea of welcoming a Sacred Pipe kept returning.
But I didn’t want to rush this choice: it had to happen in right alignment, at the right place.
I had written to Peru to ask if I could reintroduce Tobacco into my life.
Days passed.
But silence remained.
At the end of my patience, driven by an impulse, I got in the car and left for Lausanne.
I had heard about a discreet shop, tucked away in a quiet alley: a little store dedicated to Native American arts and objects, filled with incense, rattles, feathers, and above all… Sacred Pipes carved from the red Pipestone.
I made a silent promise to myself: “If I haven’t received an answer to my email from Peru before entering, I won’t buy anything. Even if the Pipe calls to me.”
That would be my test.
Facing the Sacred Pipe: the heart’s trial
I left with a joyful heart. The shop was having a sale, and a magnificent rattle had caught my eye — one I wished as a birthday gift.
Arriving in town, I walked to the shop.
At the entrance, the scent of cedar enveloped me, accompanied by the gentle chime of wind chimes.
Immediately, I saw it: the rattle I had spotted online.
It was there, placed as if waiting for me.
I took it in my hands, moved.
Then my gaze slowly drifted to the display window\...
Where the Sacred Pipes sat proudly.
They were lined up; some bore animal heads, others were more minimalist, but all vibrated with presence.
I stood there a long time. Motionless.
Just watching.
Then I looked down and smiled.
I had made a promise. I would keep it.
I bought the rattle.
And I left.
No Pipe.
I felt proud, light.
Proud to have kept my word, not to have given in to temptation, even when faced with the beauty of these sacred objects.
The answer
In the parking lot, without thinking, I turned on my phone.
I had received an email.
From Peru.
My heart leapt in my chest.
The Tabaquero accepted my request.
The sacred Tobacco was open to me again.
Emotion rose.
A vast joy, mixed with deep gratitude, flooded me.
He congratulated me for my patience, my rigor, the sincerity of my approach.
I felt seen.
Truly seen.
After so many doubts, detours, and resistances, these words felt like a blessing. But this blessing came with a price.
He asked me to come to Peru for three months to reintroduce the medicine of Tobacco.
Either in June, July, August of this year...
Or in May, June, July of the following year.
I froze.
It was a demanding yes.
One of those soul calls that shake an entire life.
How would I do it?
How to organize myself?
Financially, logistically, inwardly?
When the spirits test patience: a story of tobacco and faith
In the following days, doubt settled in, insidiously.
All the trust I had nurtured for months began to waver.
Was it right?
Was I ready?
What if I was wrong?
I didn’t want to act out of fear or haste.
My heart wanted to say yes, but my mind multiplied the “buts.”
In this whirlwind, one truth emerged: it was time to write to Thomas.
I remembered that phrase slipped to me by Heather, like a discreet seed:
“Here’s Thomas’s email. You never know, if one day you want to write to him directly…”
What if he was the maker of my Pipe?
What if he agreed to craft it for me?
I wrote to him.
I shared my story, the call stirring in me, and asked if he would accept to create my Sacred Pipe.
At the same time, a Zoom meeting awaited me with Martha.
I needed to talk. To lay down my uncertainties somewhere.
She listened carefully, even if I sensed she didn’t entirely share the Peruvian way of approaching Tobacco.
Then she said a simple, clear sentence:
“Listen to yourself, Lorraine.”
She added nothing more.
But that silence said a lot.
Then, almost as an aside, she offered an unexpected proposal:
“If you ever want to come to Pipestone in July, and the flight to Minnesota is too expensive, you can make a round trip to Los Angeles. I will pick you up, and we will drive to Pipestone in a van.”
It felt like a dream.
This woman, whom I barely knew, was gifting me a long-awaited dream.
A van journey through sacred landscapes.
It was no small thing.
I thanked her deeply, touched by her gentle presence, even from afar.
But I told her I still needed to clarify what was truly calling me.
I knew it wasn’t time yet to answer.
I needed to listen.
Again.
Always.
The echo of the dream and the return to the jungle
The next day, a Sacred Pipe ceremony was planned on Zoom with Martha’s women’s circle.
We prayed together, shared our fears, doubts, and urges.
In this weaving of words and silence, something inside me cleared.
A gentle but firm certainty: I had to return to the Amazon.
This connection with Tobacco, in its most original form, could only be sealed in the heart of the jungle.
Where it had all begun for me.
Where the medicine had spoken to me the first time.
Where I had learned to listen.
My heart knew. And Thomas still had not answered.
We were in Holy Week. That very special week, marked by the mysteries of death and resurrection.
I felt the symbolic intensity of the moment.
So I wrote to Satya.
I did not want to embark on this path without her blessing.
If Grandmother Medicine Song were still alive, she would have been the one I asked.
Today, Satya keeps the fire. I would not leave without her agreement.
Then, on Good Friday night, a dream came.
I am in the jungle, by the river.
The air is humid, vibrating with the cries of howler monkeys and the rustling of leaves.
And suddenly, I learn that Olivia is not dead.
I am on the phone with her.
But at the same time, I am with her.
Two realities overlap, as if worlds had opened to each other.
I say to her, shaken:
“But you are alive!”
She answers calmly, without surprise:
“Yes... but invisible.”
I confide my doubts, this decision to make, this choice that haunts me.
To leave for three months with the Tabaquero in Peru... or to follow another path.
She listens without a word, then replies with infinite gentleness:
“You do as you wish, my dear. But some people went... and did not come back better.”
She leaves a silence. Long. Deep.
Then adds, almost inaudibly:
“You can come see me. I will take care of you.”
Her voice changes. Becomes firmer, steady.
She describes what she would do: healing, presence, accompaniment.
She speaks little, but each word carries.
An ancient tenderness. A gentle strength.
I want to answer, but already something shifts.
The dream unfolds. The space becomes blurry.
I feel myself leaving the other shore.
And then I hear it.
A bird.
A clear, pure, insistent song in the morning dawn.
Like a gentle alarm.
Like a reminder.
I listen closely and let myself be carried by the song.
It brings me back to the heart of the jungle, there, where every morning, when Olivia was still alive, the same song echoed.
This song pierces me, it awakens in me who I truly am.
It rekindles my deep memory. It reconnects me to my truth.
I know it.
I feel it.
The message is there.
It comes from her.
It comes from the Spirits.
Acceptance and decision
Upon waking, an unusual peace envelops me.
I feel filled with deep, silent gratitude.
Rarely does my Maestra visit me in dreams, and never with such clarity.
I think back to the bird’s song, its persistence, its power.
And suddenly, the truth bursts forth within me.
My medicine Pipe, the one linked to Olivia, is a bird.
Small, discreet, yet carrying messages from elsewhere.
A medicine bird. A winged breath between worlds.
I then grant myself two days,
two days to let my body fully feel this vibration rising in me.
I pray, I watch over this dream as one watches over a sacred fire:
without rushing it, without turning away from it.
Then, gently, clarity dawns.
Quietly, without drama.
I make my decision.
I decide to write to Peru:
I will not go.
I close my computer, take a deep breath.
In the hours that follow, as if the Universe was waiting for me to make this choice to open, a message arrives in my inbox.
It is Thomas.
He writes to me that he has left the path of the Sacred Pipe.
That he no longer makes Pipes.
But…
Exceptionally, he agrees to make one for me.
He adds:
He will not activate it.
It will be up to me, or another trusted person, to do so.
I remain still for a moment. Then a smile lights up my face.
Thank you to the Spirits.
Thank you to the medicine.
Thank you to the Sacred Pipe.
Thank you to the tobacco.
Thank you Olivia, Maestra, who once again came to guide and support me.
Thank you for your presence beyond the visible. For your tenderness and clarity.
I take my phone, breathe for a moment, then write to Martha:
I’m coming to LA in July.
TO BE CONTINUED…
I invite you also to read the previous articles:
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