Sweat

Last night, I experienced my first sweat. It was nontraditional, a square structure built by my coworker and containing three women and only one man (only men are traditionally allowed to enter). My friend cooked up the rocks over a fire, while I sat in his backyard enjoying the view of the fields and the distant White River turning gold as the sun set behind the peaks. As it grew dark, I enjoyed gazing up at the star-filled sky, wishing I knew more constellations, especially now that I'm studying Greek Mythology with my 8th graders. After the rocks cooked for an hour or so, they were shoveled in, and my friend hauled in two buckets filled with lavender-scented oil. And in we went.

In Larry Colton's book Counting Coup: A True Story of Basketball and Honor on the Little Big Horn (a book I recommend to those of you curious about what life's like on reservations), he describes his first sweat with a group of Crow men as an experience in torture, where all of the men wilted towards the cooler ground, lying face-to-ass in fetal position trying to escape the heat. So, I felt quite strong and proud of myself for being able to stay seated, never even tempted to run outside to escape, until my companions commented that the rocks never got hot enough in the fire. Still, nothing could deflate me at that point. An easy start's better than not, and I felt so good, I didn't care about anything. So relaxed, so calm, so limber. Then we climbed out, steaming in the cool desert night air, our bodies looking like they were smoking. We stood there, steaming and cooling off, still silent, still in our own little worlds, until finally we went inside to feast on a big salad that we'd made beforehand.

I told my friends that I was hooked. There's something so calming--yet challenging--about breathing in that steam and feeling pores open up and lips tingle and water drip down your back, your chest, your face.

Peace,
J.