During a break in the clinic schedule, I began working on one of my objectives for the rotation: journaling. July 2nd, 2008, reads, "Yesterday was my first day of work. Sue and I saw "Miss S," an 86-year-old Navajo lady with dementia. It was very interesting: She is afraid of her mother, brother, and sister, who are all dead…Ghosts are a very big concept here—apparently the old hospital is full of them. The article I read said that the Navajo people bring their family members to the hospital to die because they do not want to come into contact with their spirit leaving their body (chi'itti?)." By reflecting on the day in written form, I was able to amplify the experiential learning that was happening at an astonishing pace. The residential adolescent unit holds separate weekly male and female sweat-lodges as a therapeutic modality. Late in the afternoon, I felt honored by an invitation to join. Because the lodge on site has an ant infestation, we drive to the community sweat-lodge, located on the top of a hill on the outskirts of town. I feel my heart pounding and my breathing becoming shallow with anticipation. Much care goes into preparing the stones, which represent the Navajo ancestors. The sweat-lodge leader, a middle-aged Navajo woman, explains that these stones are called grandparents. All Navajo are related through their original clans. I look at the birch-encased structure lying low to the ground, with a small canvas-covered opening and wonder how we will all fit in there. I enter the domed Hogan on my knees, crawling to the left in a circular fashion. All sweat-lodge entrances face east in Navajo culture, reminding me of the start of this day, walking towards the sun. Soon, I hear the rhythmic sound of the leader splashing water on the coals. They tell the story of the sweat-lodge's origin. A sense of well-being surrounds me. We are gathered in this dark, safe space, eight women in total, to support two teenage girls in the time-honored Navajo way of healing. All my senses are engaged in this process: the smell of the juniper, the feel of steam, the thickness of the air, the warmth of my skin, and the darkness that surrounds me. "Hozho hazlee," we chant, invoking a catharsis for the posttraumatic pain of one of the girls. On exiting the sweat-lodge after the first round, I feel intensely lightheaded. The ceremonial water that is passed after each round seems not to be enough. My clothes are drenched when I reenter. By the fourth round, I am lying on the ground because of the heat. The traditional healer tells us that the girl's pain, combined with our emotional response, which was focused on her, heated up the sweat-lodge so much that this was one of the hottest sweats she has ever attended.