Sweat Your Prayers - That'll Give You Something to Write About

Image by Gerhard Lipold from Pixabay

Given the intense heat wave that is taking over the Pacific Northwest right now, I thought it appropriate to re-post this blog from early June, last year.

What’s happening now is a far cry from a sweat lodge; but in its own way, this may be another opportune time to sweat my prayers. Hear ye!

Since cultural appropriation has been a hot topic for a few years, I start with the disclaimer that there was none of that here.

A Blackfoot Native taught his tradition, along with songs and prayers in his language to this community of copacetic and lovely Caucasian humans.

The story he told of being a watchdog as a child truly made clear the significance of what I was about to do. He said he was forced to go to the Native boarding school, and that their traditional sweat lodges were deemed illegal by the US government.

But the Blackfoot continued them anyway.

Dillon (name changed to protect his privacy) said that his job, along with the other kids, was to hide in the tall grass while their parents snuck the rocks, sticks, wood, canvas, and everything else needed to make a temporary sweat lodge in baskets to look as if they were going out for a picnic or something.

If the kids saw any government officials coming, they were to blow their whistles to warn the elders of coming trouble, who would then stop what they were doing and hide the evidence.

It’s unbelievable that such a practice was ever illegal. There was no reason for that beyond oppression.

I would have thought that as a Blackfoot, Dillon would take offense at the white people who wanted to use his spiritual traditions for themselves.

But nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dillon made it very clear that he was grateful for communities like this one, where the Caucasian nation wanted to form sweat lodges and do the spiritual practice as it was meant to be practiced.

“With your participation,” he said to us assembled there, “the practice of praying in a sweat lodge stays alive. And that’s crucial for us to keep it going.”

This was my first sweat lodge and I really couldn’t have chosen any better.

I used to be scared of sweat lodges.

Until a couple of years ago, I always avoided saunas, and preferred steam. But then one of my best friends and I started a daily sauna marathon after a retreat we attended together a couple of times.

Maybe the retreat was more arduous than most. All I know was that the saunas I shared with my former roommate burst through any resistance to heat and sweating.

Because now I love the feeling of rivers of sweat pouring down my body.

It’s both cleansing and kind of dirty.

There is something primal about it. It’s even more primal within the womb-like darkness of a sweat lodge.

The heat is even more intense and your sweat pours, all while crammed into a confined space with a lot people who are also drenched with body fluid. Throughout we’re singing, calling out prayers, and setting intentions.

This year, I went to the retreat alone.

A new friend I made there invited me to the sweat lodge the following Sunday, after I told him I was staying in the area for a few days longer after the end of the retreat.

“I’m intimidated by sweat lodges.”

“You should be,” he said. “So are you coming or not?”

I did.

I went to the Wal Mart parking lot early that Sunday morning to meet my friend from the retreat and get a ride to the sweat lodge.

I figured the bearded hippie dude doing tai chi in the empty parking lot was likely headed for there.

I was right.

“Just you wait until the water hits the rocks,” he said. “That’s always my favorite part. There’s something ancient and primitive about it that runs deep for me.”

This particular sweat was special in that it was the inauguration of a new lodge. I found out afterwards that these monthly sweat lodges had been suspended for about a year and a half.

The previous hosts were in their late 70’s, and got tired. They insisted that the next generation pick up the ball, and it was a while before somebody did.

The lodge was already assembled with various sticks and branches nailed together and covered with canvas to make a mound. In the center, a hole was dug out.

This held the rocks — aka the Grandfathers — and we carried them to the edge of the pyre that would later become the fire that would heat them up.

There was an air of excited anticipation as we prepared for the sweat lodge. Doing the work of building up the sweat was a crucial part of being here.

The strongest and hardiest of us split logs of varying lengths, while the rest of us carried them to the pile where others built up the pyre. The fire would burn directly in front of the opening to the lodge.

“That’s the fire line. It’s very important to not cross it when you’re coming in and out of the lodge.”

A woman explained to me the points of significance once she knew this was my first time.

Pointing to a small mound to the right of the entrance to the sweat lodge, she explained to me that was where we leave our offerings and prayers, and that the four sticks with long, narrow ribbons in different colors represented the four nations of the races of the world.

“Yellow is for the Asian nations, white for Caucasian nations, Red for Indigenous nations, and black for African nations.”

That lady was very kind to tell me all this.

“The rocks are the Grandfathers, whereas the fire and the lodge are the Grandmothers. The lodge in particular is the womb of the Grandmother, and the heated rocks are the Grandfathers and Grandmothers united.”

“How long does it take for the rocks to get hot enough?”

“At least an hour.”

Finally, it was time to light the fire to marry the Grandfathers with the Grandmothers.

The air was festive on this Sunday. More than 70 people showed up to this and I couldn’t believe it when most of them were able to fit inside that sweat lodge.

Their elation and joy was palpable as the people chatted and waited for the grandfathers to get hot enough and the first round to begin.

“There will be 4 rounds of about 15–20 minutes each,” the kind lady explained. “Each round has a theme.”

During the 1st round, we called in the Great Spirit.

During the 2nd round, we called out our Intentions.

During the 3rd round, we asked for Healing.

During the 4th round, we offered our Gratitude.

There were only a few minutes between rounds to leave the lodge — which a lot of people didn’t — to stretch, pee, and drink more water before going back in for more.

Each sweat got more intense than the last.

I’ll never forget my awe when I saw those fiery rocks, smoldering like wood embers in those moments the Grandfathers united with the Grandmothers came into the womb of the sweat lodge.

They came in one by one, in groups of eleven, at the end of a pitchfork to be dropped in the hole in the middle of the sweat lodge.

We called out each time:

“Welcome, Grandfather.”

Once the eleven for that round was gathered, the door to the sweat lodge was dropped, all was dark. The water poured and the steam rose.

The time had come to sweat our prayers.

The Camel Who Passed Through the Eye of the Needle - On the Road #31

Image byManuela_BurkhalterfromPixabay

This particular letter from my email journal of the DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005/2006 has nothing to do with that trip. Right after I had landed in Santa Cruz, my godfather, Bill Demetree, passed away. He was a very pivotal figure in my life, so much that I was compelled to write about him to my community in Juneau, Alaska who had never known him. Same thing with Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in the fall of 2005, I felt like a piece of my soul had broken off. Anybody who cares to read about that, click HERE.

Other than that, enjoy this ode to one of the great humans of my life, who inspired me to always remember the high road in the decisions I make in my life.

Hey y'all, 

I remember a few years ago, in that first year after 9/11, when many were paralyzed by fear of travel and becoming the tragic victim of a terrorist attack. Of course, the press did their part in to keep it that way, and a friend of my mother's came straight out and said it.

"I'm tired of being scared."

"Don't be afraid of life," said Mr. Bill Demetree in his usual, soft-spoken way. 

Isn't it funny how the truly wise man gives himself such a quiet presentation?

The world lost a great man today.

It seems like on my epic booktour/roadtrip, even death is a part of the journey...

I've been struggling to find the right way to describe Mr. Demetree. He was one of those old family friends - only by lack of blood are not a member of the family - who are so close. 

He was extremely supportive and loyal to my mother during some of the worst times of her life – the divorce from my father, the years she took care of Mimi (my grandmother) after her stroke, and of course, these last ten years after my mother's aneurysm.

Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were always there. 

Mr. Demetree prayed every day for Mom during the weeks she had been in a coma for weeks. We didn't know if she would live, die, or suffer some awful purgatory between life and death.

Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were there with us regularly, at the hospital. My memories of that time are unclear, but I’m pretty sure he kept vigil with us on the day of her surgery.

In these times when there are many who speak of doing the right thing, Mr. Demetree was the man who actually did.

Deeply religious in his Catholic faith, and with an integrity not even the devil himself could question, we felt confident that the spiritual connections of Mr. Demetree would carry some weight.

He was in business with my father and grandfather, and later my brother. Oddly enough, I think it was through business that Mr. Demetree came into our lives. Yet beyond business, he was also a friend. 

Anybody who knows the men in my family would agree that they made strange bedfellows to be sure.

But one thing that struck me about Mr. Demetree was the balance he managed between standing up for his beliefs, speaking out for doing what's right, alongside an attitude of non-judgment for those who listened to his advice, yet did not take it. He maintained his relationships with those who chose to live differently than he. 

The roles he played - business partner, friend, and even counselor, he was a man who led through action not word, always setting the highest example of dignity, honor, and integrity.

There's a saying that they don't make them like that, anymore...and frankly why the hell not? 

Those of us who had the privilege of knowing Mr. Demetree...let those seeds planted by his example grow in our minds, hearts, and souls. 

Let us become better people for the experience of having known a such a splendid human being. 

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven." 

Said by: Jesus Christ, Source: The Bible. I don't know which book or verse, but I remember that adage clearly from memories of Catholic School.

Personally, I always thought that was harsh. But if there is a rich man who will, that man is Mr. Demetree. 

It has been many years since I've considered myself a Catholic, but I have never considered Mr. Demetree to be anyone other than my Godfather.

He will be missed. 

Montgomery  

PS.  And yes, I'll be there for the funeral.