In the Sweat Lodge

In the sweat lodge, all ideologies melt away.
There are no corners and no lines and everybody is a temporary
friend.
Furthest from the door, I don't do much talking.
Eyes closed, I walk amid the ruins of my life.
First, there's the void, the answer to my question: "Why?"
Perhaps someday I will understand but that day is not near.
In the dispassion of heat, I see my father differently.
He was not, as I, a compassionate reptile.
I am what he always imagined himself to be, a primarily rational
creature.
And in the gentle heat, I can allow myself to feel the pang of my
step-mother's cruelty but also see the devotion and love of later
years, the seed of which was probably planted from the start.
And the sweat greases my sympathy with my own mother's inspired but
irrational positivity, but also allows me to move into my own
strength.
For I have always been by nature my own man and therein lies so much of
the reason for my tribulations.
For the teachers did not want a thinker, the vendors did not want a
teacher, and the authorities did not want a warrior-guru, even though
their own line had grown frail and impotent.
Yes, sweat is a salve for even my most recent wound, that inflicted by
the girl I loved.
For in the almost scorching heat, I can't mantain the simple picture of
Fawn as an evil monster. No, she was in many ways controlling and
selfish. Like me, she was an intellectual and a pariah from a
conformist society, but not nearly as complete of one.
No, the infection seeped deep enough into her to bring out anger and
thought.
But this society wounded me deeply enough to inspire both hate and
wisdom.
No, I burn it all away: I am not a thinker, I am not a kind person, I
am not a fascist or an optimist, I am not a gentleman of this society,
I am not an adventurer, I am not a leader.
The door opens and we all file out, purged of everything too earthly,
too divine or simply too sensitive.
And, no, I do not know what I am but I am resolved to be nothing
else.