Meditations on Fire No. 3 - Sweat House Rocks Almost Ready

I learned the protocols of the sweat lodge from my father. He learned the sweat lodge from Johnny Arlee of the Salish Kootenai from Arlee, Montana, and he carried that knowledge carefully, like water that must not spill. It is a great honor to be initiated to lead a sweat. I have been sweating ever since I was very little. I have learned that the sweat begins long before the heat greets you. We gathered what the lodge required. Douglas Fir bows cut with care. Blankets folded and stacked. Willow saplings bent into ribs. Volcanic rock chosen for its strength and endurance. The firewood was gathered and chopped, always the right kind, always enough. Each step followed another. Nothing was misplaced. 

I learned by watching hands move. I learned by carrying water, by stacking wood, by keeping quiet but in a joyful way. I did not yet know the fire was shaping me. My father always told me, as Johnny had told him, “This is a place to Pray, not to Play.” 

In summer, we entered the lodge at night, but in winter the fire sometimes stood in full day. That was when I noticed how each season changed its character. In daylight, the flames carried themselves differently, upright and deliberate, touching the ground with a quiet authority. Purple came to mind, a color I have always associated with royalty. The heat cast a darkened opening at the base of the fire, a shifting window made of shadow and light. When I watched it long enough, thought would loosen, and the fire would answer back, not in words, but in feeling. Fire spoke without words. 

I listened without knowing what I was listening for. The sound of wood breaking open. The breath of flame. The long conversation between rock and heat. Through meditating on the sound of fire I was beginning my journey as a fire keeper and learning to listen.