So here's the story: Last week it had been three months since my eight-year old daughter had slept in her own bedroom. The issue began at Thanksgiving. She had generously given up her space for guests and relocated to our floor on an airbed. When the guests departed, so did she -- for just two nights. Then the nightmares began and she ran in at 3am. We were wakened from deep slumber by the approach of her frantic footsteps as she torpedoed into the bed, sending the cat flying.
A week of it left me noticeably grumpy -- if that's how you describe screaming at everyone and everything in sight. But nothing could induce her to stay in her bed. She complained of noises, and shadows, and a growling in her ear. We tried everything -- threats, rewards, and left all the lights on so that it was brighter than Vegas. Bedtime always seemed promising -- endless stories, hugs, kisses, whispered talks, sitting in the armchair -- but come the middle-of-the-night we'd hear the familiar sound of her hurtling towards our room. She's a sensitive kid but not prone to drama, and she became increasingly anxious about spending any time in her bedroom. Her fear was contagious and I found myself questioning the vibe whenever I was in there. The room became somewhat neglected. The door stayed shut and I felt bad. In a city where space was so precious, we were being complacent about an enormous bedroom. But there was no avoiding the strange energy that we all felt in there. One night, when she had kicked me out the bed and I was left staggering about in the wee hours, I collapsed into her bed. But I slept poorly, and left the light on, which I did not tell my husband.
I happened to mention the issue to my friend Leah, who is Native American by birth. "Sounds like there's a spirit attached to the room," she said matter-of-factly. The hairs on my arms and neck stood on end. She offered to check it out. She brought her 3-year old son, who had been experiencing strange energy in his own bedroom. The moment he entered, he insisted on closing the door. "I don't get it," Leah said. "He never does that, anywhere. Not even at home."
As she stepped into the room, she paled noticeably. "The air's heavy," she said. "I feel as though I can barely make it to the window. It's like walking through fog." She paced around the room and then felt a pain in her chest. After a few minutes she was so overcome by sadness she fled to an adjacent room and her breathing had become labored. "Definitely something in there," she said. "Let's sage it."
I knew what it meant. It had been suggested once before and I had bought a large bunch of sage. When alight, it's aroma was so strong, that my daughter and I were enveloped quickly in a sea of it, whirling through the apartment. Small pieces of lit kindling started to fall on the floor and I might well have brought down the entire, fifteen story building. The irony is not lost on me. But this time, the herbal clearing would be done under controlled circumstances. The process is also known as smudging, based on the Native North American belief that homes and bodies are more than physical but bristle with invisible energy. Smudging is considered a speedy and simple way to remove negative energy, calling on the spirits of sacred plants such as sage.
Did I believe that we had spirits? I believed we had something and it wasn't roaches, I'd already rid the apartment of those. Later that night, I felt empathy rather than anger for my daughter. I even let her sleep in our bed but was relieved when Leah came over a few days later with a clay pot and tiny bundles of sage to burn. We circled the pot around our bodies, wrapping ourselves in the pungent smoke, to protect ourselves, according to Leah, and then we headed for the bedroom. Leah took charge. I was a trembling sissy. She spoke aloud and calling on my daughter's ancestors to help out, asked that the little girl in the room, the daughter of the house, be allowed to sleep in peace. "We honor you and wish you a safe journey, but please allow this child to her sleep. Let her room become a safe, loving place." At one point, I felt a strong chill near the door. Leah joined me and felt the same thing. Then she had a revelation. "There's more than one!" I grappled with a desire to follow the cowardly lion and hurl myself from the window. The energy in the room changed perceptibly. After an hour of saging the room, Leah turned to me and smiled. "I feel happy. It's peaceful," she said.
When my 13-year old came home that afternoon he took one sniff and gave me the once over. "You haven't been, you-know --?" He pretended to smoke.
When my daughter returned, I toyed with telling her nothing but decided to share the fact that Leah had heard about her nightmares and had put some positive energy into the room with the sage. She loved the smell of it, which we won't focus on, and sitting on her bed, she said it felt different -- safe. That night she slept and woke with a smile on her face. Last night, she slept again. Tonight....We'll see.
Was the whole episode an age-appropriate (me or my daughter?) psychological milestone? Perhaps. Something else? We'll never know but I have more sage and I'm not afraid to use it.
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