Saturday night Sterling texted me at 6:30pm to see if I wanted to go to a sweat lodge. I was about to ignore and/or say ‘no’ to him when I thought that I should continue this “yes man” approach to life and so I went with him.

What to say about the experience? We stood outside in our swim suits, with towels around our top to keep somewhat warm in the 40 degree night; my bare feet were in the wet lawn/dirt/mud while we waited for the ceremony to start. Women went in first—first timers first—followed by men, first timers last. I was close to the end of the line of people. We stood around the large fire that heated the stones and I tried to keep my feet from going totally numb from standing in the cold mud by holding one foot up to the fire, then the other. By the time I got inside the lodge, they were both partially numb.

I had forgotten about the “smudge pot” before entering. Wafting cedar smoke over myself, kneeling to the east, rotating clockwise, then crawling on hands and knees into the dark and low lodge. I was positioned in a sort of middle row—in front of Sterling but behind an experienced man who was at the edge of the pit where the hot stones would be put.

Jerry, the shaman, spoke about the purpose of the lodge, the ancestors, the spirits. I don’t recall details as I don’t find that I believe much in that. I do feel the specialness of life, and the reverence shown by Jerry and others there for the sacred is something that I find some comfort in. There was a Native American woman there and Jerry asked her to talk and sing. She sang and chanted in her native language—Shoshone? I find it oddly nice to not know the words so I pay attention to the sounds.

Inside the lodge were hanging strings of flowers or branches of some sort of plant with roundish leaves. I had taken my glasses off—no need for them in the dark and they’d fog over anyway—so I couldn’t really make out just what they were. But I liked the image of all these branches and leaves and flowers hanging down.

They brought in ten stones from the fire pit and placed them in the central hole dug out for them. Glowing red orange from the inside. Jerry sprinkled dried ground up plants—maybe sage—onto the hot stones and pinpricks of orange lit up the surface as they were immediately burned. We could smell the smoke, though I don’t know what the plants were from the smell.

Jerry splashed water onto the hot rocks—the tarp door was still open so it was still relatively cool even though there was steam immediately produced.

Finally the door was closed and all was dark. After more words Jerry poured more water onto the rocks and the sweat part of the lodge began.

This ceremony consisted of four “rounds”–one for each compass direction—and each round consisted of four songs. The first round was for the east and the prayer we offered prior to the third song was for ourselves. I wasn’t moved to pray—at least not out loud and certainly not specific wishes for myself—but many were. There was a Muslim man behind and to my left who spoke in Arabic–loud and long, long after Jerry started the third song in that first round. It made for an unusual experience: complete darkness, oppressive heat and steam, a general background murmur of prayers from the group, and a loud prayer in a different language. After what felt like too long of a time, the first round was done and the lodge door was opened and the cool night air came in to refresh us.

I had forgotten how oppressive and strong the heat and moisture are in a lodge. I recalled the single session of “hot yoga” I had take a number of years ago and how hard that was and how I had at that time tried to keep close to the ground and still to minimize the heat transfer to myself. I never went back to that yoga but here I was in lodge, having made it only through one of the four rounds, wondering if I was going to be able to make it through all.

When the steam first hits, droplets of water form quickly on your body and you don’t know what’s sweat from your skin and what’s from the water that was poured on the hot stones. You’re quickly drenched from top to bottom. I wiped droplets from my face and my body, foolishly hoping that doing so would provide some cooling and comfort. Trying to chant or sing along with the songs was the only thing that made it somewhat tolerable. I felt my heart beat faster as my body reacted to the heat and I wondered at what point it would be too much and I’d ask to be let out.

The details of the rounds blend together. The south was for praying for our loved ones; the west to pray for our enemies. In each round I wondered how I would get through to the next. I counted songs, taking solace in the fact that this was the third song and there was just one more before the door was opened and I would be able to be cool. I’d recall meditation and feel my heartbeat and take a deeper breath and know that I’d made it through worse and that I’d be alright. I found coolness in the damp dirt I was sitting on so I moved so my leg was on it as much as possible. I recall early in the third round a new wonderful smell—Jerry must have put some new herb or plant on the rocks. Lavender maybe.

I made it through all rounds, surprising myself somewhat. After the door was opened for the last time Jerry finished the ceremony by passing around the pipe of tobacco—always stem first to the next person. The tobacco smell in the lodge was pleasant—even the smoke from it was different from what I associate with tobacco. I chose not to take puffs of it when it came to me, but instead said “to all my relations” as Jerry instructed us to say if we chose that route.

Finally we crawled out—clockwise—and “smudged” ourselves again and we were done.