The early evening sun was just starting to dip behind the trees as we removed our shoes and rinsed our feet. We were a group of twelve or so strangers who had landed here in this Mexican mountain town a couple of days before, each arriving with our own worries and woes. Each hoping to find peace or enlightenment – or maybe just a few days’ rest.
We were now about to enter the temazcal, a small dome-like structure whose name means “house of heat.” I’d been told that inside the igloo-like sweat lodge, we would be sitting in a tight circle in complete darkness for around two hours. The confined enclosure was meant to represent a return to a mother’s womb, and, I was told, it offered a chance to confront things that could only be faced in darkness. Of all of the practices on our agenda for the week – many of which had my heart racing, this was the one that I found myself most nervous to endure.
I shifted my weight anxiously from side to side. The curanderas, a medicine woman with long, dark hair, blew smoke of copal over each of us as a cleansing ritual before entry. She began ushering us to the small door to enter, which was so low and tight that you had to crouch to get inside. Once in, I saw that it was only about four feet high, and I crawled on my knees around the tiny dome to take my seat against the adobe wall.
I looked around at my companions, everyone trying to find a comfortable position and adjusting our quick-dry layers as we prepared for the temperature to reach around 105 degrees. My pulse drummed in my ears, and I questioned whether I’d had enough water in preparation. But the heat wasn’t my main concern, at least not on its own. The total and utter darkness was where my mind began to fret.
A short man with graying hair and a deeply wrinkled face entered the dome carrying a pitchfork of glowing volcanic rock. He was the temazcalero, and he would be guiding the ceremony. As he dropped the burning rocks into the center pit and steam started to fill the enclosed space, my eyes stayed locked on the small but still-open doorway. I began wondering whether I should take my leave at this point.
I didn’t have to do this, I reminded myself. Doing intense, scary things wasn’t required. But just as soon as soon as these thoughts came, another part of me jumped in to say that this was exactly why I was here – to experience things that would stir something inside of me. Okay, the first part of me conceded, but you can always leave if you need to.
As if on cue, the temazcalero spoke through his translator. We were about to begin, he said, and if anyone wanted to leave, now was the time. I looked at the man on my left and the woman on my right, our knees touching. Getting out would involve awkwardly climbing over limbs, but it was possible. Was I ready for the door to close and the inky darkness to take hold? Was I ready for there to be no exit?
The temazcalero signaled to his helpers, who moved the large stone door in front of the entrance. The dark blanketed us. Sweat pooled on my skin. I was in it now. No escape.
–
There are few situations in life from which we truly have no escape. Even when we have that overwhelmed, hostage-like sense that we can’t get out, most of the time we can. We do sometimes find ourselves forgetting that it’s possible – like when we are in a really long line or a miserable job – but we almost always have an exit if we really need it.
For the vast majority of us, the knowledge of an easy exit is reassuring. We want to know that we’re not stuck in any given situation or circumstance. We’ve come to rely on this fact, and we get not just panicked, but often even angry when we sense it’s not possible. We don’t want to feel trapped in anything from a cell phone contract to a crappy movie. We expect a close egress and we expect free cancellation. We need to know we can change our mind.
Some of us don’t just prefer clear exits – we seem to require them. I have a friend who always plans her (made-up) reason for having to duck out early of a social event prior to arriving. I have friends (and do this sometimes myself) who won’t even go at all if leaving early is going to be awkward or impossible.
We associate our easy exits with our core American idea of liberty – and there is perhaps nothing more tightly held as a value in this society than freedom. It seems hard to argue with – why wouldn’t we want to know we always have a way out?
Why wouldn’t we?
–
Back in the temazcal, I tried to tame my pounding heart with firm reassurances. There was no real danger, I told myself. I was a relatively healthy person; some heat and discomfort wouldn’t kill me. They’d done this ritual for thousands of years, I proceeded to reason. It had to be okay. It would be over in a matter of hours. I had made it through plenty of other frightening things.
But none of these perfectly rational reassurances were calming me down. Neither were my efforts to keep moving my body to position it for more air. I’d heard that if you crouched toward the dirt floor, the temperature would be a little cooler and less smoky. But all of my efforts to get lower in the cramped space were just making me feel more agitated.
As the temazcalero chanted, he continued to fan large leaves wet with water mixed with herbs like eucalyptus and rosemary over the hot coals. The steam picked up and the temperature of the dome continued to rise. I was covered in sweat. Everything became quiet, and I was left only with the ricocheting of my own fretful mind.
And then, after about thirty minutes, the reality finally started to settle in that I was really not going anywhere. I might have thought I knew that from the start, from the moment the door closed and I’d ostensibly made the choice to stay in the temazcal, but I realized parts of me had been holding out for an escape. I’d stayed seated, but my mind hadn’t fully bought in, and so I’d spent that first half hour still in convincing mode. The reassurances my mind had been trying to offer weren’t me nurturing myself that this was okay, but rather trying to persuade me of something.
I took a breath — not a full or satisfying one in the heavy, humid air, but a breath nevertheless. I decided to work with what I had. I told my mind it didn’t need to keep convincing or protecting me. That effort was wearing me out.
I was beginning to settle in, which wasn’t to say that I was beginning to get more comfortable. Noticing that felt interesting. Could I let the part of me that was searching, scanning, pleading for relief and escape step back – take a break from its perpetual seeking? I didn’t have to like the experience, I knew, but maybe also I didn’t even have to try to find ease within it.
That felt strange given that we’re told that the way to survive discomfort is to find ways to ‘cope’ or lessen the burden. But here in this lightless, hot dome, grasping around for bits of relief was making things worse, not better. Counting down the minutes was only making them stretch longer. Could I just be – fully and without the promise of escape – in the intensity of this?
With the door closed on escape and my mind freed from hunting for comfort (mini escapes), I began to notice things: the mesmerizing sizzle of water hitting rock, the shifting breaths around me, the occasional giggle when someone’s movement made an awkward sound. I felt the sweat pooling on my skin in a way I’d never experienced. I had always paired this level of heat with discomfort, but now, without an exit, it became almost fascinating. Not pleasant, but interesting.
My mind wandered to giving birth to my oldest child. I’d shown up to the hospital too late for pain relief, and the nurse had looked me in the eyes and said, “There’s no way out but through, love.” Panic had surged, then my body took over, unconcerned with my comfort. When my son was placed on my chest, the feeling of no escape washed over me again — what had I done? What if I wasn’t ready? I felt the weight of no exit: I would never again not be a mother.
I turned the memory over in my mind all these years later. Thank goodness there was no way out, I realized. It was a scary thought, but I might have taken one – especially in those early, bleary, desperate nights when I felt far from being the mother that my child needed. I’d needed there to be no escape. I needed to know not just who I was, but who I could become.
As the time was inching closer to the end of the ceremony in the temazcal, I realized that I surprisingly didn’t want it to end. Somewhere along the way, I’d moved from resignation to acceptance to… enjoying this? But now the temazcalero offered a few more prayers and signaled for the door to be opened. The cool air rushed in. I was free to go.
–
The Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön talks often about the wisdom in having no escape. Like many Eastern approaches to pain, she explains that freedom isn’t found in getting away from it — that only reinforces the belief that we must escape, which becomes its own form of bondage. If my mind believes comfort is the only option, I’m tethered to its pursuit.
Instead, she invites us to stay in the hot seat — not as punishment, but as opportunity. “The trick,” she writes in When Things Fall Apart, “is to stay on the hot seat long enough to see that the discomfort is actually pointing us toward the truth.”
I can see this getting twisted into some kind of self-punishment or masochism, and it’s important to distinguish that this isn’t the teaching. This isn’t about staying in unsafe situations or pain for the sake of ego. This is about discovering where we might be relying on exit strategies – even if just in our mind – in ways that keep us from fully benefiting from what the hard is trying to teach us.
It might be a tricky relationship that feels easier to abandon. A job or project stretching us out of our comfort zone. Or the small-but-big things: going to the social event we’re nervous about, having the conversation we’ve avoided, signing up for the class we’re not entirely sure about.
We’re told that life’s too short to do things that don’t make us feel good. But what if life is too short to sell ourselves short – short of the chance to see what’s on the other side of no escape?
It might be watching that tiny baby once on your chest now score a basket in his game. It might be a more intimate conversation with your partner than you thought could be possible. It might be knowing you won’t die if you have to sit through a boring networking event.
Sometimes when we can stay in the hot seat, when we can let the room go dark and the air get steamy, we eventually do leave – changed.
Questions for Reflection
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Where in my life do I tend to look for escape routes — even mental ones?
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What is one discomfort am I currently trying to soothe, avoid, or outrun?
- How do I distinguish between staying for wisdom and staying in harm?
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Is there a situation right now that might be asking me to stay just a little longer?
