After placing the grief bundles on the alter, the twelve grievers proceed to the meadow. In the dome we strip, some clinging to their clothing til the last minute. Naked and smudged we thank the ancestors as we crawl into the now freezing womb hut. It is 40 degrees but my anticipation (and anxiety) of the impending heatwave keep my heart pumping and I'm not cold. What if it is too hot? What if I feel like I can't breathe? What if all that hummus we ate at lunch makes me fart? What if I start screaming before it is sanctioned? I hated the sauna at the Olympus spa. I couldn't stand it for more than five minutes, gasping for breath into a wet washcloth. An HOUR? An hour is an eternity. I heard you could put your face down in the mud to get some extra oxygen and feel the cool earth. At least I don't feel claustrophobic. I know I can claw my way out of the sides if I totally freak out-it's just blankets of course.

I crawl in and around the circle. Once packed in, we are knee to knee. The Four Directions are called in and thanked and Sky and Earth and Center. 4 large red rocks are tonged in with deer antlers. Voices coo "Ooooh" and "Ahhhh," which seems a bit woo-woo to me, but wtf, take what you need and all that shit, right? Lavender and sweet grass and other pleasant smelling substances are tossed about. It is warm now, but comfortably so. My toes thaw out as the butterflies swarm in my gut. Here comes the sweat.

And the screaming and singing and sweating. There are thirteen stones now - one for each of us and one for Spirit. When the water is poured the sweat and tears pour with it. I wail for the loss of my marraige. I wail for my children and how they will be affected. I wail for the six-year-old that is me, the little freckle-faced girl that could never seem to get enough attention, just wanted to be loved. The little Leo. I wail for the disappointment I felt when all these men couldn't love me the way I deserved to be loved. I wail for the rage I feel toward this woman who was just doing all she could to feel loved too. I wail for the world, the earth... all my friends and perceived foes. I wail for my parents who just do the best they can and for their parents who did the same. And it's hot and it's hard to breathe and I can feel the sweat of the woman next to me dripping on me and mixing with my sweat and tears. And it has probably only been twenty minutes. And I'm glad my discomfort and discomfort and discomfort will go on and on and on for a very long time. I've swallowed my pain and hysteria for so long and now is my time to cry for all our pain.

And then, in some moments, I return to journalist mode. I am suddenly the observer. I just listen in the blackness... and sweat and sweat and sweat. There is cackling and murmuring and coughing and spitting and singing and screaming and laughing and suddenly I am struggling to fend off the urge to belt out my favorite shower song-One Tin Soldier. Maybe next sweat I'll be free to give in to that one. But this time I just kick back and sweat. And I notice my soaking body is really slimey. Is that my snot? Then I realize I have gotten into some slug slime and rubbed it all over my dripping bod. Only in the Northwest. And so it goes.