"Smoke"

I have a small bundle of sage that was given to me by an Indian shaman.  Sometimes I burn it and inhale the fragrant smoke. Mostly I leave it in the china cupboard to remind me of meeting him.  I first posted this art in 2010.  You can read about my first experience with a sweat lodge here.  It's not the only time I've had shamanic experiences either.  You can read about my childhood experience rescuing a deer here.

Everybody and their sister told me not to go to California.  I had struck up a conversation with the shaman online and found out he’d been in prison and liked musicals.  Okay, I knew more than that.  We talked a lot one year.  I came to care for him quite a bit and I valued the spiritual insights I gained from his different upbringing and experiences.

He didn’t invite me to California.  I informed him I was coming.  Maybe this is something other people do, but I don’t.  I’m usually far more sensible and polite.  I combined the trip by meeting a close friend.

My girlfriend and her bf drove me about 1 ½ hrs in insane traffic to meet the shaman.  First impressions weren’t good, which just goes to show people deceive each other online.  My friend clearly didn’t want to leave me in his care and asked repeatedly if I was sure about it.  Yes, I was.  I can’t even tell you why either.  All common sense told me I’d cart my friend out of there if the shoe was on the other foot.

He took me to an affordable, clean hotel and left.  This was within walking distance to the ocean, and every day I walked miles along the water.  Every morning he called to find out where I was and picked me up.  We spent the days and evenings together, but not the nights – though one day he slept at the hotel while I babysat his nephew.  He was a gentleman throughout.

I tagged after him as he did his usual things, most of which involved trying to scrounge up money and jobs.  I met friends and relatives.  I shared ceremonial smoke and meals.  We threw food to seagulls and took long, scenic drives, and talked, talked, talked.

I can’t explain the ether of the whole experience.  I felt compelled to go.  I think I helped him?  He was worn from too many ministerial demands without compensation.  I reminded him his flock should feed him and make his life easier.  A dead shaman can’t help anyone.  He couldn't keep a regular job and stay constantly available for his people.

Every bit of common sense told me not to talk with him in the first place, and I'm not encouraging anyone to take risks as I did – but, it was a profound experience for me.  He is kind and self-sacrificing, sincere in his spirituality, and loved by those who know him.  We shared so much I can’t touch it here.   I'm lucky for the experience and the things he taught me.

In my day job I remind people that if you want clergy, please support them.  I'm not sure what my employers would think of my shamanic experiences, so maybe it's stupid to post this online, but I think the absolute rightness I felt about going to California meant it was right.  In the end, I guess what I'd suggest to everyone is to listen to that voice inside.  It's wiser than we are.

"Burning"

This is what it looks like inside a Native American sweat lodge. The fire burns outside of the heavily blanketed mound, and hot rocks are brought in so people can sit in the dark and sweat, pray, meditate.

My first sweat lodge was an accident of fate. Hoosier National Forest in Southern Indiana allowed the Lakota Sioux to have a Sun Dance in the park. The Indians took this very seriously, but in order to gain permission, they had to agree to allow parkgoers to watch. The Sioux resented this. I resented their resentment. The Lakota are as native to Indiana as I am. I also resented that they had a lot of unwritten rules that I promptly broke because I didn't know what they were. Alright, it's common sense not to drink pop in front of people who are fasting, but I didn't know they were fasting. I didn't know that I shouldn't pee in the sacred Port-a-Potty (reserved for dancers), or walk in front of the dancers when they weren't dancing. If they'd clued me in about any of this, I would've obliged. As it was, the Indians were annoyed, I was annoyed, but the Sun Dance went on with young men tearing the flesh on their chests where it was attached by thongs to a central pole and the drums beat and beat and beat throughout the heat of the summer day.

As I was setting up camp in the evening, my Blackfoot girlfriend came running to say we were invited to join the women's sweat. That sounded like Greek to me, but I'm game for new experiences. I ran after her, ducked inside the sweat lodge, sat down, and waited for something to happen. Hot rocks were brought in from the fire and put in a central pit and the opening flap was closed. In the pitch black, sage was put on the rocks for cleansing, and the aromatic smoke filled the cramped space in a pleasant, choking way. Water was ladled onto the hot rocks, and a cloud of scorching steam burned my nose and throat. I quickly decided that I had just allowed myself to be trapped in hell. I buried my face in my shirt to try to lessen the pain and misery while I became acutely aware of sweat gushing out of pores I had never bothered to acknowledge before. This is not an activity for people with heart problems or claustrophobia.

Eventually the pain and misery lessened, and I got tired of waiting for something to happen. I let my mind wander, and interesting things surfaced in the wandering. More sage was added from time to time, more scorching steam, and I had resigned myself to my entrapment. Then the prayers started. The leader of the circle stated the intent of the sweat. She said an opening prayer, much of it in the Lakota language. The Sun Dance was for preserving sacred places, and the Indians wanted patience in dealing with the white people. Okay. Asking for blessings for the preservation of the land is something I can go along with, and sometimes I need patience dealing with white people too. I was lulled into an interesting state where my body didn't feel real any more.

Then the next woman in the circle said a prayer. I had the first pains of panic as I realized they were going around the circle with prayers. How was I supposed to say a prayer to their God, for their purposes, without betraying my own beliefs?! I thought fast and hard while the disembodied voices crept closer to my place in the circle. I must've been exceptionally eloquent because the women slapped their thighs and voiced approval. I slumped in relief. I felt like I had just run a gauntlet. Then I realized they were working on another round of prayers, and I had used up all my material. Back to thinking hard and fast for another acceptable prayer. And on and on.

I had a glimmer of hope of escape when the flap was raised, but it was just to bring hotter rocks in. More scalding steam, more sage, more prayers. I wrestled between my feelings of entrapment, physical misery, and an increasing sense of the spiritual rightness in the universe. I quit working so hard on my prayers and just let myself flow with the movement of the spirit combined in the efforts of this small group of women. My meditation in the silence reached levels I hadn't considered seeking before. I quit thinking about my imprisonment and felt the moment suspended in an alternate reality of now.

When I was finally released, I suddenly realized I was the only one sitting in the dark fully clothed. My jeans were soaked through with sweat as if I had just gone swimming in the river. My husband of the time smelled me, and said my sweat smelled sweet and clean, more like rain water than sweat. I drank a gallon of water then slept like a rock in my sleeping bag, with dreams that built on my meditations.

The next day, my face shone in a different way. The surly shaman actually smiled at me. The women offered me breakfast. I peed in the right Port-a-Potty, and the Sun Dance made more sense to me.