As the heat begins to push into me, my only thought is escape. It is too hot in here, I don’t know if can take it, I think I want to leave, I want to leave, I can leave if I want, there is nothing keeping me in this place, i can leave, take a deep breath, slowly through the nostrils, it’s so damn hot. It’s dark, I can only see the rocks glowing red, I can only hear the voices in prayer, the sizzle of the water as it splashes across the hot stones, the steam rising over our bare bodies, chanting, sizzling, singing, and it is so damn hot, and I won’t be able to stay in here, and I want to leave, but the shame of leaving, take a deep breath.

I was fortunate enough to be invited to a sweat lodge. A spot in a grove off the highway, with vehicles parked on the grass, a short walk across a metal bridge, the kind that has a diamond pattern, and cuts the feet if walked on without cover.  The sweat lodge is a dome, shaped like an igloo, made of sticks tied and bent together, and covered with blankets for insulation. The sweat lodge has been in this place for hundreds of years. When the ceremony begins it is dark. There is no light that comes through the walls, the rocks glow red, but soon lose their orange ember hue. The walls of the lodge disappear in the darkness, there are only the voices of the six others, and the prayers being sent to creator, god, a presence warranting our gratitude.

Deep heat therapeutic practices can befound all over the world; Sweden, Finland, Russia, South Korea, Japan, Turkey, and America all utilize a great sweat as a spiritual experience. It speaks to the rejuvenation that comes from perspiration.

I was given two sticks, each approximately about a foot and a half long, when I first went inside. The sticks were not to be taken outside, they were the end pieces of the foundation of the lodge. As I understood, the sticks were to be used to beat bad spirits out of the body.

When the heat was its most suffocating, I began to tap the sticks on my collar bones. A collar bone is one of the easier bones to break, so lightly, slowly, I lift them and set them. Then I start to tap the side of my neck and run the stick down my shoulders. I begin swinging the sticks faster, not enough to bruise, but enough to focus on the voices, praying for strength. For the courage to continue, and find safe passage on the journey. I tap my traps with the stick. I use more force. I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I stick the point of the stick against my rib cage, how long are these typically, I tap the top of my thigh and then begin to press the point of the stick across my legs. Holding it horizontally at each end and rubbing them across the front of my shins.

And then we step outside. Wrapped in towels. Steam floating in wisps off the bodies, still beading with sweat. I am asked if I feel like a newborn baby.  I laugh and pretend to cry. We sit outside and enjoy some small talk, what is going on in life, who went where, they did what? Then we go back to the lodge, soon after, and the prayers begin again, there is singing, the sticks are clapped together for rhythm. I feel a drop of sweat go from my forehead down the bridge of my nose. It sits on the tip of my nose, I can’t see the droplet, too dark, but I can feel it.

After a couple more sessions, we are all done. The rocks have lost their heat, and many are sweated out. Two walk into the creek and sit in the water. I follow them, put my feet into the mud, and see the murky water. I splash it on my face. Specks of dirt are splattered across my chest and forearms. The water is cold. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, considering the meaning of another Sunday morning.