First Sweat
by Vince Constabileo, June 2002

After attending my first drumming circle, an attempt at dealing with years of acedia, I heard about an annual sweat lodge held around the winter solstice. Being new to this group of gay men and new to drumming, I was a bit hesitant to join their sweat. I didn't know what to expect from the ceremony. However, I felt myself exited by the idea of attending and inexplicably drawn to this Native American tradition.

Arrival at the location where the sweat lodge was to take place was awkward. I sat alone, not knowing anyone, feeling like an outsider. When the drumming began I felt at ease. I didn't need to know anyone to participate. No longer a group of strangers--now a gathering of queer men drumming, tapping, rattling.

I don't know how long we drummed. The tempo rose and fell many times, the only indication or segmentation of time. The drumming drew me into this gathering of men. When I would occasionally open my eyes, I would see them, eyes closed to this world. Or eyes open, taking in the fellowship that we were creating moment by moment. And occasionally my eyes would meet another's, receiving a nod of acknowledgement or a quick smile, as if to say "You are welcome here."

In the morning I woke early, dressed and headed out before breakfast. Climbing the ridge out back I came across a small circle made of shards of shale, shaped into a ring about one and a half feet in diameter. Snug against the inside of the ring were buckeye nuts. In the center of this second ring was a large piece of shale, almost the size of an outstretched hand.

Native peoples used the poisonous nuts to supplement their diets, grinding them into flour and then running hot water over it to eliminate the toxicity. Feeling the analytical part of my mind vying for dominance over the purely experiential, I tried to relax.

I meditated over this found art object or nature altar. What was it? As my mind relaxed I began to wonder why it was?

I noted the oblong shape of the circle of shale--trying to think less of what these objects were, and more about what they might communicate. The rich brown color of the buckeyes reminded me of burnt butterscotch. Some of them were split, an eruption in slow motion, life pushing its way into the world. The insides of the buckeye nuts, their primal essence, were a rich light yellow, looking like spheres of butter dipped in a candy shell.

I felt my mind beginning to ease, I started to accept rather than categorize. I stood up and noticed that I was standing within a larger ring of shale. I hadn't noticed it when I had arrived in the clearing. I felt unexpectedly a part of this structure, like that childhood realization that the earth is just one of many planets in a larger system.

Passing beneath an old oak, my introspection was interrupted by a boisterous ja-cob, ja-cob, ja-cob coming from above. Looking up into a tree, I saw a flock of birds, raucously fluttering through the branches making quite a racket.

I studied their behavior. Acorn Woodpeckers are a uniquely communal species. Few in their group breed, but all share in the responsibilities of raising the young. Again I felt myself classifying and analyzing rather than allowing myself to experience.

I looked up again, this time wondering at their luxuriously glossy black feathers. When in flight, their white markings flashed like visual Morse code. I had heard their slow drumming earlier. Now the cacophonous group gibbered and fluttered, performing some collective activity, pitching and tumbling through the air, an individual's cajoling call answered by the group.

I wandered to the area where we would build the sweat lodge. A cold damp covered the area, including the fire pit and skeletal wooden frame of the sweat lodge.

I ran my fingers along the curved arcs of the wood, fingering the leather ties that held the structure together. Everything was cold and in the shadow of the mountain. Suddenly the rhythmic pulse of drumming in the distance began, time to rejoin the group.

Slipping back into the group I learned we were going to be journeying. I had never done this before and intently listened to the description. A couple of men would drum a monotonous beat while we each envisioned a way into the earth, a hole or cave or tree. When the drumming increased in tempo we were to envision ourselves passing back through the area we had traveled, returning to the surface when the drummers gave a final, distinctive rhythm. It was explained that often those who are journeying encounter power animals that guide them or impart wisdom.

After journeying many of the men shared their visions. What I saw differed greatly from what the others experienced. It confused me. Had I done something incorrect? Unsure, I chose not to share my vision.

In the fading afternoon light we build the bonfire that would heat the stones for the sweat lodge. First a layer of wood, then a layer of nine stones (we carried each stone separately, honoring each for its role in tonight's ceremony), repeating the process until thirty-six stones had been tucked between the wood.

It was at this point that I first felt a great sense of community with these men, having just experienced my first journey and now working together to build the bonfire, I realized that the sweat was not about counting stones or "correct" visions. It was about the communal experience, the joy of working together toward a common goal.

We built a small aperture just past the midway point of the stack, a small space stuffed with sage and straw. To my surprise the honor of lighting the bonfire fell to me.

As a group we circled the bonfire, watching the aperture blaze with sunset colors or being surrounded by wood smoke that carried the faint scent of the sage. We circled, we drummed, we clapped our hands. We watched as the structure we build began to heat the stones that would aid us in our sweat.

The appointed hour for the sweat approached, I became nervous, unsure of what to expect physically and spiritually. Our group of sixteen gathered around the blazing fire. A palpable feeling of expectation gripped us. Under the stars and moon I joined the others in removing my clothes, the cold ground stinging my feet. I tried to get closer to the fire but the heat that radiated from the wood and stones kept me at a distance. I tried to calm my nerves, thinking about the fire heating the stones. How the stones would be doused with water to produce steam: fire, earth, water and air.

I joined the line that formed outside the sweat lodge, taking up the hand of the man on either side of me. "So it begins," I thought to myself, not realizing that there had been many beginnings leading me to where I stood, hand-in-hand, circling the lodge on this cold night. After circling three times (as one of us had seen in his journey), we entered.

Darkness and the scent of earth. Sitting cross-legged and trembling, I'm unsure whether it's from the cold or anticipation. I'm waiting in the cold while the others file into the lodge. All is quite. Someone giggles, I imagine someone stepping on another's toes in the darkness.

The man who organized the building of the bonfire is speaking to us, talking about the ceremony that we are engaged in. Although he speaks eloquently from the heart, I'm struggling to understand. My mind is racing with anticipation, distracted by my fears that I will not be able to endure the physically challenge before me, in a state of confusion over what I will experience and what I want to experience. His words come to an end and he's asking if we are ready. Ho!

The man who has led us thus far will be our stone-barer. Getting up from beside me he leaves the lodge to fetch the first nine stones. His smooth skin is brightly reflecting the fire's burning light.

The first stone is glowing with an eerily beautiful orange light. Sitting like a meteorite that has just pounded the earth, it produces wave after wave of heat. Another is brought, and another, and another. The rocks keep coming and the temperature is rising quickly. The stone-barer has brought the final stone for this round.

He is speaking of the things for which he is grateful. Now he's asking us to do the same. The man next to him is beginning to speak. I feel a maelstrom of thoughts churning inside my head. What am I grateful for? What would be appropriate to say? Through the clutter of my own thoughts I hear a man speaking of the love he has found with another man. I can't help being moved by his words. I am listening to his story and my mind is coming to rest. He has finished and now I am listening intently to the next man and the next and the next until the man beside me has finished speaking. Words come to me unbidden.

"I am grateful for the relationships I have been so fortunate to experience. For the generosity of soul of the men I have come to know this weekend. I pray that I always cherish the men in my life."

With a "ho" the round ends and the stone-barer is on his feet. He opens the flap to the lodge and I feel the cool night air slip across my wet skin. Looking out of the lodge I see the rock-barer, pitchfork in hand. He is stirring the fire, arranging the rocks. Finding one to his liking, he draws it from the fire. I watch his chest tighten as he lifts the heated stone, his lithe body blazing orange in the dark night.

He is speaking to us about his pain. While I listen to his words my mind comes to rest on the painful events that have recently taken place in my life. It is my turn to speak.

"I have experienced a painful rift with the person who is perhaps most responsible for the man I am today. My mother has recently refused medical care she desperately needs. The pain made poignant because her refusal is the result of her spiritual path. It is the first time in my thirty-one years that we have been unable to come to some resolution. I pray that I will be able to recognize the difference between the pain that comes my way versus the pain I bring my way."

The round ends. The stone-barer opens the flap. Ducking my head down I drink in the dark, sweet night air. I hadn't realizing how thick with steam, cedar and sweet grass the atmosphere inside the lodge has become. My head to the ground, peering through the flap, I see Orion in the night sky. I think of my pain and Orion's, both linked to important women in our lives.

The stone-barer is bringing the final stone for this round. These stones come from the heart of the fire; their surfaces sparking blue as one of the men uses a pair of antlers to place them among their brothers in the pit. The stone-barer is closing the flap.

He is speaking of a dream, and each man continues the theme.

"When I was a lonely boy growing up in an undeveloped area, I dreamt of a man. He came to tell me that although I was different from everyone I knew, it was okay. At the time I thought I was one in a thousand, not one in ten. Not even in my dreams did I dare conceive of a mutual, loving partnership. My relationship with my partner so completely surpasses those boyhood dreams. I never thought it possible for one person to give so much. I don't have a prayer as much as a need to give thanks for my partner."

The stone-barer is opening the flap of the sweat lodge, dropping my head to the earth I find it is still amazingly cool. I am grateful for this small respite from the heat and incense. They have become overpowering, pushing out all non-essential thoughts, pulling me into a state of deep thought and spiritual resonance. Another stone passes by me. These are the last of the heated rocks. I am swooning from the heat, exhausted yet invigorated. The stone-barer touches my knee and I feel my body flush.

He is speaking. I am having trouble breathing in the thick, hot air. Lying on my back, I am trying to make as much contact with the still somewhat cool earth, trying to hang onto the words I hear, the thoughts I am thinking. It is my turn to speak.

"My prayer during the first round was the first time I have prayed since I was seventeen, when left the religion I was raised with. I pray I continue the journey that I have begun here. Keeping with me what I have gained this weekend."

After reflecting on my experiences at the sweat lodge, I have come to realize the sweat was only one component of my reintroduction into a search for spirituality. The weekend was not about making some esoteric, inner connection, but rather something far more tangible. For me it was about recognizing my place in a community, not lonely walks and introspection, but the sharing of my life among men equally committed to sharing their self-exploration.

I think about the circle of shale and the buckeyes and marvel at how I did not see what an obvious metaphor they are for the sweat lodge, the circle of shale surrounding the organic material splitting with potential. I think of the journeying I did, how I thought it was about my experience, what I saw. Not until after the sweat did I realize that the entire experience was contingent upon community, from the drummers to the individuals who shared their visions. How had I missed that? Why had it taken me so long to discover the pathway to the spirit is not one I must travel alone? Rather, it is a road shared by many.