Lakota Sweat Lodge Experience, Pt. 2 - Sitting at Ron Little Thunder's Kitchen Table

Some of my friends and family want to understand what I went through. I usually respond by giving them a few of the basics: who was there, where we were, what a sweat lodge is made of, and how it is heated. A few of my friends and family move to questions I answer as I am able and consider appropriate for the particular inquisitor. That’s the lawyer in me. What questions I hear. Was I alone - meaning, was I the only white guy there? Was I scared? What was the temperature inside the lodge? What is the significance of certain numbers? How tall was the lodge? Was there peyote involved? Were you wearing clothes? In that moment you have to reflect upon their questions, you wonder at what level or place they are inquiring. You cannot know exactly what is in their minds or where their minds are, but you can show them respect by answering their questions to the degree appropriate. At risk of stating the obvious, what I decide to tell you remains to be known.

For starters, of course, I can speak only from my perspective. If I sound like I am limited in my point of view, it is because I am. Each of us is. I went into the sweat lodge experience utterly unprepared and unknowledgeable on any sort of natural level - the roots and framework of the ritual, its part in the humanities, the significance for the Lakota, the place for outsiders like me, the risks - but more on some of that later. For now, I will tell you the basics of the lodge and the ceremony. Out of respect to those who were involved, I will say little about them and scarcely a word, if any, about their thoughts on their experiences. As for my experiences, I will share more but will leave out parts that remain greater mysteries to me. Those parts I have shared with precious few. 

What is a sweat experience? First, it is utter darkness. The rolling glow of heat through large lava stones is the only light. You cannot see the man across the lodge or next to you. You cannot see your own hands until you hold them close to the fire pit. You see no light from the moon or stars, or lamps on the ends of electrical connections. A friend described the threshold of the experience as disorienting. That is true. 

I was not five minutes into my first sweat lodge experience when I heard coming from the recesses of the lodge the voices of a number of old women singing and chanting along with the five Lakota men who sat in the darkness of the small conical lodge. At times, the women’s voices overwhelmed the men’s. 

I was not five minutes into my second sweat experience when I heard emanating from slowly glowing lava rocks the clear voice of a loved one dying of cancer. I could not understand her words, but she was speaking seriously with someone.

There you have it. Read on if you wish. Consider me a lunatic and quit reading. I’m not here to argue with you. The first time I told someone, I was embarrassed.

*****

That mid-October afternoon last year, as I stepped into Ron’s home, he introduced me to Nancy as his daughter-in-law. We stood in the entryway and living room, which are separated by a large television. Ron and Nancy told me frankly about themselves, mostly about Nancy. How she had come to live there with Ron. She never married Ron’s son. About her 8-year-old daughter Remi, who lives there too. Ron drives Remi to school and picks her up each day. How Nancy on two occasions had left the place, but the weather - severe thunderstorms - had driven her back both times. She and Ron found unity in helping one another. I heard little about Remi’s father, Ron’s son.

After talking with Nancy, Ron and I sat at the round table at the corner of their kitchen and living room. My host did not exactly ease into conversation over our first cup of coffee together. Ron shares my propensity toward impulsiveness. He showed me a pencil drawing he had made of a portal on his land to the other world. He showed me other artwork. It was remarkable work, everything slightly supernatural. He told me he had passed through the portal and would pass through it again one day. 

As I understand and can best put it simply, Ron was considered an elder. He told me that another Lakota elder would lead the sweat ceremony – Ernest Red Elk, who was Ron’s brother-in-law, although Ron told me nothing of their relationship at that time. Rather, he told me who Ernest was – the son of Joe Chipps, a direct descendant of Horn Chipps, who gave the shaman warrior Crazy Horse his medicine long ago. That was why Ernest would be leading the ceremony. Ron told me I would be asking the spirit of Crazy Horse for permission to write the book I am working on. Ron told me who else would be there - three of Ernest’s nephews (none of whom are brothers) and what we would be doing - a few basics about the sweat lodge ritual.

I asked Ron questions about the ceremony and what to prepare for. He laid it out for me. It was rare for people to have bad experiences, but some could not handle the confinement, the darkness, or the heat. He made it clear that if I needed to leave the sweat lodge at any point, I could. He would make sure I wasn’t too far away from the door. I had no sense I would need to and told Ron something to that effect. He showed no concern, either. As I was nearing the last of my coffee, thinking it was time to set up my camp, I asked Ron if he wanted to know any more about me or my writing project. 

We looked one another in the eyes for a moment - about as long as it takes to open a door.

“I know all about you and your work,” Ron told me. He spoke the words without batting an eye.

“How do you know?” I asked him. 

“The spirits told me.”

How did I get here? I found myself silently asking.