Steam, seasons, and the shape of community
Entering the darkened space of the sauna, hearing the wood crackle, greeting the first löyly, my body softens and I come home to myself.
Photo Cred: Jessica Hein
Löyly is the Finnish word for the steam that rises from the rocks as we pour water over them. This is the centre of the Finnish sauna experience and it means much more than simply ‘steam’. It is the breath, the soul, the life force of the sauna. It’s where all the elements come together—the fire, water, stone, air—and connect with our body and breath.
Sauna is a living culture, both ancient and contemporary, one that is shaped by community and brought to life through connection and repetition. It’s a ritual that can bring peace to our lives, resilience to our communities, and connection within our neighbourhoods.
As a child, growing up in a Finnish-Canadian community in the forests of Northern Ontario, I had my first sauna at the age of 4 months, in the arms of my grandfather, as my grandmother carefully poured ladlefuls of water over me. Sauna was an integral part of the rhythm of our lives. We had saunas in our houses, in our basements, at the lake. It was about cycles and seasons. It was where we bathed, and sometimes washed clothes and prepared food. Sauna was where we connected with each other and with nature. Where we found quiet and solace and joy.
Sometimes in summer the old woodfired sauna at the lake was full of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, grandparents. We talked quietly, taking the heat together in shifts, and then joyfully, raucously plunged into the deep cold lake. And then we did it again and again and again.
As a child I often had sauna with my grandparents, a quiet and gentle cycle of hot and cold. With them I learned about respect for all bodies. From the low bench, with my feet in a bucket of cool water, I watched them quietly care for one another and find peace together as they lay with their feet propped up at the ceiling. In hushed tones, they asked, Can I wash your back? Can I pour more water on the stones? Are you ready to go outside? This was a quiet space of care. In winter, clouds of steam rose from their skin. Sometimes they rolled in the snow. On occasion my grandfather cut a hole in the ice for avantouinti (ice-hole swimming) and plunged. We bathed from buckets with ladles of cool water and afterwards relaxed together, wrapped in cozy towels, with ice-cold drinks. Our bodies ready to meet our dreams.
As a child, sauna was the epitome of safety, warmth, and togetherness.
Here in the city, decades later, sauna became reserved for trips home and vacations at the lake. We sauna often enough that my small children revel in pouring water from the top bench to create löyly. They don wool sauna hats, pour cold water over their bodies to quell the heat, and sometimes skinny-dip beneath a sky full of stars. But it’s far from a ritual that belongs to our daily lives.
Finnish sauna is not a luxury experience that occurs a couple times a year. It’s integrated into everyday life in ways that are both practical and sacred. It’s about family, friendship, community, nature, and self-care. Here, in the city, I have longed for the connection and peace that sauna once brought to my life.
And then I met Jason one cold winter day at the beach. He and a friend stood outside, casually leaning against their truck, welcoming visitors clad in bathing suits, swimming coats, and cold-water booties to their humble (and very hot) sauna. This simple community sauna quickly became a touchstone for me.
We formed a weekly community ritual of hot and cold. Jason and his friend rooted the sauna in connection. With thoughtful greetings and quiet care, they kept the buckets full and poured water on the stones for us bathers. Each Saturday I connected with strangers and deepened friendships as we relaxed and sweat together, and then dashed across the frozen sand into icy waves.
And afterwards, as I sat on the rocks looking into an expanse of lake and sky, my skin still steaming, thoughts of my grandparents and great-grandparents filled my mind. I felt connected not only to my community, to the city, the lake, the cycles, and seasons, but also to my ancestors – ancestors whose lives were rooted in the elemental nature of sauna for thousands upon thousands of years.
Across Finland, family and community saunas have offered a space for healing, renewal, and connection for generations. It’s a place to come home to oneself with gentleness and compassion, and to find companionship with others. And so, I think of this new sauna by the forest at the Brickworks as an offering and an invitation. My hope is that we’ll build it together through shared ritual and quiet companionship, and—like the saunas of my childhood—create a space that is both respite and joy.
