Here's Mud In Your Eye

I was young, I was cool, I was free, and somehow, I was pretty brave.

I live in the Hudson Valley, two hours north of New York City. But in the 1980s I lived in Manhattan in a trendy neighborhood (Chelsea) in a fabulous rent-controlled apartment. I ate at great restaurants that stayed open really late and went to the clubs and danced until 4am. I was young, I was cool, I was free, and somehow, I was pretty brave. Maybe even a little reckless.

In 1992 I moved away because I was burnt out. I had lived through thirteen years of watching young men, gay men mostly, get sick with HIV and die of AIDS. I was directly involved with the care of many of my friends, and many strangers who became friends. I volunteered in the hospice at St. Vincent’s hospital, offering gentle bodywork to dying men that few people were even willing to touch. I delivered meals to homebound people with AIDS. I managed a medical office that only treated patients with HIV and AIDS. I said final goodbyes to far too many of them. I went to more funerals than I can count. My heart was broken, my soul was dog-tired, I was grieving, and I became somewhat fearful of life. I had survivor’s guilt. I needed respite. I needed to find another way to live. So, completely on spec, I applied to a nursing program in upstate New York, packed my bags, gave up my apartment, and moved to the country.

The bottom line is I hated nursing school––it wasn’t for me––but I discovered that a quieter life in the country was sweet. So, I stayed.

I met all kinds of people. Lots of hippies. A ton of aspiring yogis. I met people who were into organic food and composting, people who gave pot lucks. I’d never been to a pot luck in my life. I learned the expression “crunchy granola lesbian.” At the time I was more of a lipstick lesbian. Everyone wore Birkenstocks. I found it vaguely horrifying.

One day, my girlfriend at the time told me she wanted to go to a sweat lodge. She was learning about the Lakota people and wanted to pursue her education in Native American culture. She had dream catchers all over the cottage we lived in.

Something you need to know about me is that I feel a tremendous amount of anxiety about having new experiences. I wasn’t able to get much information about what to expect at a sweat lodge. There was no Google in 1992. For me The Great Unknown wasn’t so great. But I decided to be brave and go to a local sweat with her. When we got there we were met by two lovely people who were going to be our guides. It had rained the day before so the ground was muddy. There were ten or twelve of us. We crawled into the lodge–a domed temporary structure covered in canvas and plastic sheeting––and sat on the towels we’d brought along. It was dark, there was a fire burning in the center of the space, and everything smelled of sage. Seated in a circle around the fire, we were taught some chants and we received traditional teachings about the sweat lodge.

Another thing to know about me is that I don’t like being hot. At all. It was quite warm around the fire but I was doing okay. I thought to myself, “Yeah, I’ve got this. No big deal.” Then it started getting warmer. Water was poured on the hot rocks in the fire and scorching steam began to fill the space. The guides told us to lie down on the ground if sitting upright became too hard due to the heat. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie down. I refused to lie down. One more thing to know about me is I hate getting dirty. Why? As a child, I was strongly discouraged from playing outside. Because if you played outside you’d get dirty. DIRTY! Not allowed. I was never the kid who loved jumping in puddles. Don’t get dirty!

As I sat in that lodge, sweat dripping from every pore I possessed, I started to become light-headed because I was too stubborn to lie down. If I did I’D GET DIRTY! I kept breathing, thinking it would help, but soon my breath turned to panting. The guide could see that I was in trouble. I was on the verge of passing out when she yelled at me, “Nan, lie down now or you have to get out of the lodge!”

Grudgingly I gave in, slowly lowering myself all the way onto the ground, the muck...the earth. The mud was so chilly and wet. It was soothing. It was almost delicious. The air at ground level was cooler. I could finally breathe normally again. I was absolutely restored and I was filthy. The whole left side of my body, my face and hair, were covered in mud. I even got mud in my eyes.

At the very end of the ceremony I sat up and started to laugh. A laugh that started at my feet, and traveled all the way up my body. I laughed at myself. At my stubbornness.

Somehow, I had equated surrendering––to the mud in this case––with dying. It actually hadn’t been the getting dirty part that was the problem. It was giving up control. Letting go was frightening to me. It sounds dramatic, I know. But being out of control felt so unsafe to me that I was rarely willing to try things that weren’t familiar. I identified letting go with losing everything. At some point in my life being in control had served a purpose, but it was no longer useful. It was an illusion, that feeling of safety.

My need to be in control has slowly been replaced by learning the practice of discernment. It’s very different. It’s much more empowering and balanced. That experience in the sweat lodge made me realize that taking chances, saying yes instead of my knee-jerk “no” might open up a world to me that I knew nothing about. And that might be okay. It was a wonderful lesson in letting go. I’m still tested all the time. My knee-jerk “no” still comes up. It’s so automatic. But now I have the ability to pause and reflect, to question my response. Now, before I shut things down I try to dig in the dirt a little. I’m willing to be messy in whole new ways and that has opened up my life.

---