Sweat Lodge in the Poconos

It was a perfect weekend. Tranquil lake, morning dew, warm fire and spiritual beings gathering for an experience. It was different from the one I partook in last year. The one that changed my life. This one was lead by Lunging Bear. Tall, gentle voice, and blue-eyed leader. He was having problems with his prostrate. TMI? Well, that's what he shared.

His goal was to take us in and out. One swift motion. He smudged half-heartedly and recited none of the rituals. A cd played in his S.U.V. and the hypnotic voice instructed that if a woman was on her moon cycle, to be sure to share this with the chief. I did as instructed.

Lunging Bear looked at me with dismay. His blue eyes widened and he whispered, "You will have to do a separate sweat. Otherwise, you will drain me of my energy. You see?" I was a little annoyed. It wasn't just that I would have to paddle back to the other side of the lake and wait an hour or so, it was that so many people were turned off to this sweat because he was a man that preferred to have the women dressed in long gowns upon entering the wee-pee (or tee pee, as it is more commonly known). Time. Patience. The bane of my existence, really.

The long hour passed, and I watched the sun move from the sparkling angle of the trees, to the shining kisses on the waters' edge. They shone like diamonds. The ripples calmed down to a faint murmuring reflection. I was calm. I was ready.

I entered in the wee-pee. Fully ready to disclose my intention. Lunging Bear sat outside and smoked his Marlboro reds. "Go in," he said. "Don't I have to re-smudge?" I asked. "No. You're fine," he answered cavalierly. I was ready. I was waiting for an awakening. I went in the wee-pee and only about 5 people (from the 35) remained. Some where lounging in bikinis, some were in full gear. I sat close to the rocks and breathed in serenity and centeredness.

There is a tradition among the Indigo people whereupon women in their moon cycles are asked specifically to sit on the Earth and feed it with the milk of human suffering. It reminds nature to awaken and protect, as it had so many centuries ago. With mindfulness, I let the drops kiss the Earth. I let go.

Lunging Bear entered the wee-pee, and when the panels closed, we were cloaked in darkness. He went through the ritual. "What are your concerns?" he asked. In a round-robin fashion, people shared their most intimate worries. He spoke beautifully. He called in all the spirits of healing. A calm swept over our little clan.

"What are you grateful for?," Lunging Bear then asked. I could hear some people hyperventilating and weeping. So much had been revealed, so many wounds were exposed. Three people expressed their gratitude. So many more sat in silence. Lunging Bear retreated. I was anticipated the four directions, and found myself caring for two spirits, like wounded fawn. I gave reiki to those remaining. I called healing and pure energy and spirit to come and infuse this wee-pee. When I retreated, the sun was setting. I felt the trees call to me and awaken an appreciation for having fed them with the milk of human kindness. I was no longer afraid of the woods. I was no longer afraid of the Earth. I had transformed in a different way. Thank you Mother Earth!!! Abundance is my birthright, and you have shown me the way.

Labels: Native American, reiki, Rumi, serenity, sobriety, Sweatlodge

Drums along the Hudson

It was a simple Sunday, like most others. I awoke with the streams of the morning sun dappled along my face. Would I carpe diem, or carpe sleepum? That was the question.

In a fit of adrenaline-slash-guilt from pissing away the week, I quickly put together a coordinated designer outfit. If I was going to schlep around the tip of Manhattan, I was going to do it in style. Without even second-guessing, I hailed a cab. It was only after the driver pointed out that it was kind of ironic to take a cab to go hiking, that I even dared look at the impropriety of it all.

I was going to hike at Inwood Park, and then check out Drums Along the Hudson.

What followed once I arrived can only be described as magical. The sun was just making it above the ridge of clouds, and the dew was magically placed along the moss-yes, folks, moss along the granite boulders. Hiking shoes leading the way, I melted as I saw a brook make its way along the rocks and roots. Many trees were falling from the attachment of poison oak vines that were sapping its vitality. My goal was to make it up the mountain, along the terrain and back down before my coffee was digested.

I had a black out. That's the only way I could describe it. Miles away from any car or exhaust, hearing only the sweet chirping of chickadees, woodpeckers and bluebirds, as only a natural symphony could be composed, I found myself seduced by the sounds of this elegant bird score. I looked in wonder, as I heard the whistling of baby hawks, making their way to their nests. I sat on a collapsed tree trunk, with gruel in my hands, in utter amazement. This was still Manhattan. I was deep in nature, surrounded by oaks, cherry blossoms and white birch. My jaw dropped and I was humbled as a cardinal swooped down and took a kernel from my hand.

Hours later, I made my way out of the forest, and yes--I could see the trees--and just as I went to leave this paradise, the scent hit me. It was the smell of sweet sage which I had discovered during sweat lodge. My nose followed the murky sweet smell. This was a renaissance. The rebirth of connection.

Making my way to the origin of the sage, there were a line of women singing tribal songs with melodic drums beating in union. The songs were familiar from that day in sweat lodge that changed my life. Upon halting, I looked around and it was a greater circle than I had ever imagined. My feet were firmly planted on the ground as I watched Native American children playing with Aryan families, dogs rushing under alpaca wool, and glimpses of feathers and fur peaking beneath headdresses’. The familiarity of the music and the large circle took me back.

Transported to the tee-pee once again, I remembered my vow, "I have come to honor the mother" I said. As we faced the North door of the journey, I ran out of the tee-pee in a full sweat. Everything had become light. The thoughts and visions of my colleagues played out in their chakras like cartoons. Kneeling and panting before the burning oak, I knelt carefully and purged my inner demons, "Bring us back to nature! Remind us of our connection to the divine source!" I uttered, as the tears flowed from my sweaty face.

Picking myself up off of the ground, I wearily made my way back in. Seeing the shining faces in the dark, I knew my prayer had been for them all. It had also been for my home.

Although this event may not be repeated in this area, it jump-started a reminder: there are many events like this that celebrate nature and Native Americans. The realization of this, the serendipity of being at this event without warning and the smell of sweet sage, cleansing my aura yet again, played out like a distant dream, trying to find a voice. Our little island is jam-packed with surprises, isn't it?

Labels: festivals, Native American, Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge