I remember when Sarah invited one of her best friends up to our house and he told us stories of transcendence. One story was how a man went insane because he was suspended in water in pitch black, and the absence of any reference point to his physical space made me go insane. Another was about a man who proved to the CIA that his powers of ESP could end the Cold War. And my favorite, because it scared me the most, was about the complete eradication of mind and time in the dark deep realm of Sweat Lodge. I remember Sarah's glass blue eyes get fat in awe. I remember saying that I could never do something like that.
Yesterday I conquered Sweat Lodge.
Heather Tiddens is the yoga teacher that I go to to get my healthy dose of Yin Yoga. The Dark Yoga. The Moon Yoga. She used to be a pro surfer. So the sun bleached hair and the Marlon Brando arms make sense. But still when you look at her, you can tell that she is a hybrid. Part Surfer, Part Native. Her hair with is tied in a deadbeat bun that swings at her shoulders, or it is down, laying on her back in twisted tobacco rolls down to her sacrum. I like her, I trust her because she isn't showy and she laughs at herself. Plus her teachings are simple and direct and they make sense inside me. Heather has had different trainings in her lifetime with a wide spectrum teachers to guide her. One of her certifications is Sweat Lodge Keeper.
For a puny 45 dollars, I spent 11 hours at Heather's property preparing and sweating and letting go of my fear. Dividing her property is clearing with stacks of woods, dirty broken plastic bins, and two skeletons made of willow bone that arched into domes. When I saw the natural curves of the branches, and the space for the door I felt the beginnings of dread. People stood around awaiting commands of the Sweat Lodge Keeper.
This is how you make a Lodge. Willow dome made my the strong and bendable stalks of the tree tied by leather straps. Laid over the bones, painter tarps. Over that, dirty matted quilts. Over that, army blankets. And Finally canvas tarps. The participants (who I have vowed not to speak about) nervously wrapped our new home.
We said our intentions. We bestowed our wish into the Grandparent Rock which was going to blaze and ponder our wishes in the pit. We exhaled our wounds into the logs that would be incinerated. All of these prayers that we made with such gentle asking were done clockwise in a circle. I tried to believe in my prayers, as usually I don't or at least loosen my doubt. It felt good to let down my arms and let the Spirits from all directions hold my humanity. I prayed to be fearless. I prayed to finally let go of the sorrow that I am no longer a child. I prayed to be gentle and thankful. I tried my best to believe after years and mourning the death of my fearless self--she might resurrect.
Then the fire was ready to burn, as our Grandparents and our Suffering came together to find a solution. The fire needed time, so I slept in the grass. When I decided to let the crawlies in the lawn wake me up from my nap I came down to put my commitment ring on the altar. and to wrap up my tobacco offering in black fabric. Black for the West Direction. The Direction of death, of winter, of refuge, of letting go.
And then, after hours of praying, and listening, wrapping and resting, there was nothing else left to do. The Lodge was going to be heated by seven volcanic-hot stones, and be surrounded by pure terrifying blackness. Absolutely no light was let in.
Round 1: Singing, Welcoming our Healers. The singing was loud and haunting, and I sang without insecurity because I had too. The uncomfortable syllables, and the loud peaks of music kept me from thinking about how my molecules could have been floating away and I couldn't watch. It lasted maybe 15 minutes. The songs sounded like they came from ancient peoples who loved both joy and pain. Who cherished all marks of life; even scars. You could hear the mourning's and surprising joys of histories. The heat began to rise, began to swell like a hot open mouth of a whale.
Round 2: Five more stones were brought in (instead of seven). The heat was almost unbearable. Never have I felt so humbled and vulnerable that I would shove my face into a swampy mulch of weeds and mud. For the next two rounds I will be in the same fetal position. Praying. This round was for ourselves. Praying for our healing. Praying for our courage. All of our whimpering prayers sounded the same, and it was the only thing that comforted me.
Round 3: Each time a round ended we would open the flap. Finally the air and light would flood in, revealing the muddy tears, the completely drenched bodied. The wet ragged hair stuck to mud, stuck to sage, stuck to sticks. This round was for others. And we prayed for every being, for specific individuals, for the future population of trees, animals, and famlies. It was so hot, I begged mercilessly in my mind for the others to refrain from going through their entire family trees and pray for them. But the praying was relentless. When it came for me to speak, I could not calculate my thoughts nor my words. I spoke completely spontaneously. it was short,stuttery, and completely from heart.
Round 4. The rocks have cooled slightly but the heat is still something that I could never imagine. But with each prayer water is poured on them, creating thick clouds of steam, crowding our fears and wishes to the outer walls. This round was for gratitude. And this was the round that I was sure I was going to live, and that in itself brought on rivers of thanks. I had heard maybe hours of prayers (the time in Lodge is unknowable) and in that time I had been stripped of the ugly abuse in my mind. I still thought the same things, except my thoughts lived without the heavy shackles of shame. No shame, there wasn't even any room for it under the smoke; the sweaty limbs. I had my face, nostrils, and all in the new mud that I had created with my own sweat. I had the pincher bugs, the weeds crawling where they pleased. I didn't care. I didn't care about my judgements, I didn't care about anyone or anything. I could only care that I was still breathing and that I was going to come out the same person who went in. For a moment I realized that I would be the same person no matter where or what. No matter what happens I have myself (whoever she might be) to come home to. And then I had the way trees will always stand tall. I had the way my lungs breathe in and out. I had my memories, all of them good and bad. I had the earth to walk on. All these things could never be taken away from me. No matter what, I have a home.
Aha, it's here. I have found my gratitude again.
Round 5: This was supposed to be a short additional round to get out anything we needed to say. All at once the prayers were muttered, and it sounded like a circle of Wiccans, or something breathing from the supernatural. The water was poured, and poured, and poured. Until my chest was pressed, my ears seemed to meet. The heat became pressure that squeezed the last bits of doubt right out of me.
The flap was opened for the last time. I crawled out of the small white lit hole, jello legged and armed. I felt like an animal being born. Out of a sticky womb, I squeezed out. Covered in mud. Cold from the ten pounds of sweat i had shed. On all four hands and knees, I bent and touched my head on the cool earth and said " I am here"
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