My first sauna experience was on a chilly November afternoon in New Hampshire about 10 years ago on a yoga retreat. The sauna was wood-fired, and home-made by a very clever man from recycled and found materials (the bright and gorgeous porch/anti-room was made entirely of old French doors cobbled together, and the giant old wood stove, which blasted heat into a space big enough for a dozen people, might have actually been an old coal furnace.) It was fed from outside. and the whole thing took about 6 hours to heat up. 30 yards away, across a stretch of chillly lawn, was a farm pond, with a dock and a ladder for the cold plunge. I was with folks who'd been sauna-ing for decades, and in good hands. As soon as my body got intensely hot, I was told to quickly open the door, shoelessly run across the frozen ground to the dock, plunge into the pond, count to ten, and then run back into the sauna. And to do it again at least one more time, too. And then see what happened. I duly complied - thrice - and each time the plunge into the cold water became easier and easier.Though I was born here, I'd been someone who'd suffer in the raw cold of New England winters - and struggle with the humidity of our summers, too. But something shifted in me that day: the extremes of heat and cold worked on something misaligned, deep inside. When I left the sauna for the last time, I walked barefoot back to my room, far across the farm. I felt alive - and permanently recalibrated.

My first sauna experience was on a chilly November afternoon in New Hampshire about 10 years ago on a yoga retreat. The sauna was wood-fired, and home-made by a very clever man from recycled and found materials (the bright and gorgeous porch/anti-room was made entirely of old French doors cobbled together, and the giant old wood stove, which blasted heat into a space big enough for a dozen people, might have actually been an old coal furnace.) It was fed from outside. and the whole thing took about 6 hours to heat up. 30 yards away, across a stretch of chillly lawn, was a farm pond, with a dock and a ladder for the cold plunge. I was with folks who'd been sauna-ing for decades, and in good hands. As soon as my body got intensely hot, I was told to quickly open the door, shoelessly run across the frozen ground to the dock, plunge into the pond, count to ten, and then run back into the sauna. And to do it again at least one more time, too. And then see what happened. I duly complied - thrice - and each time the plunge into the cold water became easier and easier.Though I was born here, I'd been someone who'd suffer in the raw cold of New England winters - and struggle with the humidity of our summers, too. But something shifted in me that day: the extremes of heat and cold worked on something misaligned, deep inside. When I left the sauna for the last time, I walked barefoot back to my room, far across the farm. I felt alive - and permanently recalibrated.

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