The Lodge

My temple,
my sanctuary,
my church has no walls
of brick,
of stone,
of wood.
Instead, walls of the Universe enclose it.
Ritual and ceremony exist without
a man of the cloth,
a written decree,
a breaking of bread.

My place of worship,
a Sweat Lodge,
originates in a fire pit beside the Crystal River...
where river rocks slick and thick with algae are ritualistically placed,
one on top of another-
facing east, south, west, north.
Number of stones vary,
sometimes twenty-eight is the magical number,
sometimes....it isn't.
Spirit is the mathematical guide.

Stone people,
river rocks,
record keepers,
ancient ones,
hold stories of our ancestors.
While wood, a gift from our Mother,
wraps around the stones like a snake coiling around its prey.
Wood and stones together,
united by a single match
married and sanctified by the flames that envelope them.

Fire, welcomed with echoes of
drums,
rattles,
voices singing,
"fire, sacred fire, burning through the night,
come to me in the dreamtime, bring me visions of light"
dances, sizzles, grows, simmers.

Hours later,
when ready,
congregation enters the blanketed dome-lodge
through a single door only large enough to crawl through,
claiming a spot upon the cool dirt floor,
members settle in.
Welcoming the Stone People,
blazing red and hissing,
into the womb of Mother Earth.
Given a place of honor
sprinkled and purified with nature's bounty
elder,
sage,
juniper,
Stone people come to life with unknown faces.

Door closes,
sharp noises, bright lights of the world disappear.
Darkness and silence reign.
Time ceases until faint sounds emerge:
water sprinkling, pouring onto the rocks
hissing,
whining,
sighing,
voices chanting at the decibel of a whisper,
"Hey hey ya, hey ya"
growing and becoming thunder,
"AH NA NA HEY AH"
dying into the void,
"ah na na he................"
drums beating a solo,
until rattles join in
creating a symphony of rhythm.

Heat,
at first a welcome kiss,
becomes an unbearable blast.
Sweat beads on each forehead
pools,
trickles,
runs,
like the moisture of a window pane
down to splash on the Earthen floor.

Chanupa,
blessed pipe appears,
at first...two separate entities:
bowl, female,
stem, male,
joining together,
becoming whole...a perfect balance.
Sacred tobacco,
blessed,
packed into the bowl,
lit,
uniting those who wish to smoke for the good of all.
Honoring directions
then-
passing to each member.
Smoke entering the mouth, exhaled...becomes prayers
floating in streams to the sky toward Great Spirit.
Smoke seeping from the bowl...prayers of the ancestors.

Each member takes a moment to speak
that which is in her heart,
that which needs to be healed,
that which must be said.
Ceremony draws to a close,
lessons of the lodge learned,
everyone gives thanks,
with one voice exclaiming,
"HO, mitakuye oyasin!"

And so it is spoken,
and so shall it be.