Pachamama – Sweat
10 Apr
A massive ceremonial fire bathes in the sunlight of this riverside land. Now at the height of the dry season, the river is just a mess of smooth stones, teasing us with the possibility of cool fresh relief. Two round, wide wooden frames sit beside the fire, low to the ground, and bound with red cloth and string. These skeletons of the lodges are wrapped in long white canvas strips, separating inside from outside, creating a sacred space. The womb of the earth.
Ash silently spirals in the wind like snowflakes, flurrying and fluttering. The air is breezy; shade is a welcome solace from the blazing heat of sun and fire combined. A moon-shaped altar of stones and sage, young mango trees, and aloe vera is decorated in fuchsia, golden, sunset, and blazing yellow flowers, enlivening the senses through both sight and smell. Ylang ylang fills the air.
Men wrapped in sarongs carry wood and tend to the fire. Women donning loose cotton dresses embroidered with brightly colored flowers prepare the ground, sweeping and tidying the earth and altars. As more people arrive, joyous smiles are seen all around. We are little ants, marching to and fro, hugging hello, tending to things, chitting and chatting.
Smudged, cleansed with smoke and a prayer, our bodies are prepared for entering the ‘temascal,’ the sweat lodge. Women then men bow and enter clockwise. We rest our bones on the clay earth, heads bowed. Cups of bittersweet tea are passed around before the call ‘Ometeo!’ meaning two energies. Grandmother and grandfather firestones are welcomed. Sweetgrass and cedar sprinkled on the glowing rocks emit a blissful scent; we waft the smoke over our heads and across our skin.
The sweat drum and maracas enter the lodge. A big silver pot of water splashes playfully as it is touched to the stones. We call ‘agua de vida’ and begin. We sing, breathe, cry out, hum, and pray. Crsssh! Splashes of water sizzle and steam as they make contact with the hot stones. It becomes difficult to see, to breathe. We start sucking air as if through a straw, leaning down to the earth for a gasp of non-burning oxygen. Struggling between sensation and surrender, the intensity of the steam takes us beyond ourselves. Chants get more powerful, prayers are called, and sound spirals and weaves between the magnetic fields of our bodies and the elements. Earth, fire, water, and air combine. We sit atop a tangled web laid in the shape of an intricate mandala, necks straining to hit high notes, sweat dripping into our eyes, bodies shaking and rocking within the tribal rhythm. The sound stops abruptly and we pause. The air is thick and buzzing. My trembling hands can sense the energy; sunlight glowing through the canvas takes us into a new dimension.
We connect through sound. Slimy muddy bodies lean on each other for support, an expression of gratitude to this experience and existence itself. The closing OMs become a wave as wide and vast as the ocean. Our voices blend together in peaceful harmony, and slowly fade to silence. We cheer, “Ometeo… puerta!” The canvas door sweeps open and a cool breeze rushes over our reddened skin. We close our eyes and breathe deeply in relief. Slowly, our hands and knees bless mother earth as we crawl towards daylight, leaving only handprints behind.
MRumianowski
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