Rituals: Sauna Night
A couple years ago Molly and I started a weekly sauna night at our house. I stole this ritual from my friend Zach. In fact, I think I may have even stolen his day of the week.
Friends know that on Wednesday evenings, our sauna will be hot. Each week, a friend, or two, or ten, may show up. Some nights it's just Molly and me. Some nights we assume we’re solo, until a latecomer walks through our front door (or through the sauna door). Some attendees are more frequent than others. The regulars talk about getting swag made. Though this too I’d be stealing from Zach, and that may be a branded hoodie too far. Friends of friends may join. It may start early. Or go late. The details are loose, but the general format is predictable.
The sauna temperature hovers around 160 degrees. Sometimes a little less, sometimes more. How hot that feels can vary quite a bit depending on how foggy the evening is—our sauna is in our backyard, loosely constructed, and two miles from the ocean. Plus, it’s wood-fired, and burning random scraps from my wood shop is more art than science—so guessing just how cooked we’ll get is half the fun.
Donned in towels, robes, or nothing at all, we’ll generally do a few 15-minute sessions, taking breaks out in the yard, and possibly cold “plunging” under our outdoor shower. You know someone is out there taking a plunge break by the muffled hoots and yelps.
People tout the health benefits of saunas, but I don’t give that much consideration. For me, the intimacy is the principal benefit.
It’s a once-a-week invitation to reduce all of my attention and stimulation to a tiny room, dimly illuminated by dancing fire. It’s a chance to have conversations with friends, mostly nude and barely visible, if at all. We’re in close quarters. Intimate, by every measure. It’s focused. A type of gathering that feels ancient. And imbues a quality that trickles out in the larger hang in our house and yard.
Sometimes it’s raucous. Just as often it’s a struggle (though a shared one!) through the heat and the sweat. The conversations are thoughtful. Or sad. Or funny. Sometimes they’re well reasoned and articulate, but then hit a wall as the person who was on a great train of thought bumps up against the reality that their brain is fighting for its life at 165 degrees and 60% humidity. A particularly long answer to someone’s question might be punctuated with “I’ve got to get out of here!”
There’s a relatable parallel in car rides. If you’ve ever noticed that deeper (or uncomfortable) conversations can happen in the car, you’re not alone. It’s been studied. Eye contact is swell, but it can also be confronting. Staring ahead, together, gives breathing room to a chat. And small spaces have been found to make us feel safer and thus more honest, so car talk—and sauna talk—is a real thing.
We have a log book. I stole this, too, from Zach’s Sauna Club. (Though we did have one in the old cabin, and our appreciation for them extends beyond sauna.) Newcomers will usually have the honor of logging the night’s sauna, but otherwise duties float at random. Temperature, time, humidity, attendees, topics discussed, etc, all may find their way into the book.
Whatever the details of each particular night, it’s always enjoyable, a fun curiosity as to who will show, and likely a great time spent with friends. There’s value in the ritual. It’s predictable. On the calendar. We are all part of a thing—a familiar slice of social or personal intimacy that everyone knows is happening, and will again next week.
Love this idea so much. There’s no hope for a sauna in my New York City apartment, but a standing invitation around a ritual is very appealing. Thanks for sharing.