Dear ones,

It was seven years ago, in Turaida, Latvia, with my fourteen-year-old daughter, that I saw my first Latvian healer. She was giving cleansing treatments with a whisk of birch or oak branches to a long line of people waiting their turn. Each person sat before her, and she whisked over their bodies as though clearing dust from their shoulders. I recognized the movement. I had participated in limpias, part of the curanderismo healing traditions of Mexico and Central America, and something in me unlocked. I remember the feeling of my heart being pulled from my chest. My daughter noticed it too — she got scared and told me she was going to call her father. I think she sensed, in that moment, that something in me might be strong enough to distract me from my role as her mother.

I came to my senses before I could run toward this unsuspecting woman. The discipline of a mother — of learning to wait to meet your own needs — pulled me back. But I told myself I would find a way, even if it took a long time.

I am proud to share that, seven years later, I am finally there.

I want to add by naming the privilege plainly: I have the financial resources and the freedom to return to my home country, and I do not take that lightly. Nor do I take lightly what the Latvians have done to protect their cultural traditions against long odds. In the past, when I spoke of Latvia, I spoke mostly of the song and dance festival — that stunning display that reinforces unity, multi-generational belonging, and the honoring of distinct regions. The pirts, the Latvian sauna, has been more elusive. Until now.

**Learning the elements**

This year, in 2026, I had the opportunity to deepen my practice with my teachers, Anrijs and Aija, over seven days in Gulbene, Latvia. I learned alongside my daughter, her friend, and others about the element of steam — the conversion of water, air, and heat, and the alchemy that happens when it meets the human body. In the early days, the photographs show my face screwed up with tension, trying so hard to be a good student, to get it right. By the end, I got out of my head and let my body do what it already knows how to do.

Across those seven days, Aija wove in the feminine — the sacred teachings of what it means to be a woman, the purpose of the womb, and how we invoke both tenderness and firmness in our practice, in our bodies, and with ourselves.

**The land and what it remembers**

The setting itself — a typical Latvian country home — does not translate into words easily. It occurred to me that Latvians are, in some ways, still living as they did in pre-medieval times. The difference now is that their earnings go into their own pockets instead of a German baron's family's. Not all Latvians, and yes, there are tractors and modern equipment. But the underlying truth holds: the land gives what you need, and if your land doesn't give it, your neighbor's does. It was a deeply enriching experience — the simplicity of a land that has everything life requires, and the ritual of the sauna, whether at home or in the community saunas every Saturday. A place to return to the womb. A place to return to community. A place to show up with other human beings, in humility, literally naked.

I am trying to find the balance between the sacred and the awe of being a cultural outsider, discovering a pocket of the universe that feels rarely spoken of. I hold that balance with the understanding that these stories — of how humans live inside their own distinct cultural traditions — are critically important during a time of great transition, like the one we are in now.

**Bringing it home**

I am grateful that my teacher speaks English, which accelerated my learning far beyond what my two years of Latvian and Google Translate could offer. I am grateful, too, to my daughter, for going with me again — both as companion and accountability partner. Her commitment meant I had to go. I might have gone alone eventually, but her company softened the profound awkwardness and vulnerability of delivering myself back to the land.

Since returning home in early July, I have begun bringing these new teachings into our own space — a ten-year-old Costco sauna my husband and I bought on sale one January, long ago. We are tenderly building our own pirts. What I love most is how basic these practices are, at their root. As my Buddhist father would say: chop wood, carry water. Collecting plants for teas, salts, and the whisk. Traveling respectfully into the countryside to gather branches. Preparing my body. Decorating the interior of the sacred space. Filling the buckets. Washing the sauna after. All of it has become sacred to me — even the parts of my brain trained to be a high-performing, intense lawyer are dissolving their old compartments, relocating the interconnectedness of our well-being, leaning into a technology far older and wiser than any book written by a disconnected human.

Thank you to those who supported this trip — through your contributions to our circles, to my teachers, and to the aunties, elders, advisors, and mentors who have helped me find my way home. We hope to complete our home pirts this winter, and we look forward to welcoming those who are called to join us in our community space — in the great remembering that is available to all of us, no matter our lineage, and no matter where we come from.

With care,

Maija

Maija Danilova West is a governance practitioner, peacemaker, and the author of Matriarch Makeover: A 30-Day Invitation. Her forthcoming book, From the Triangle to the Circle: Matriarchal Governance Design, is addressed to practitioners of law, peacemaking, and governance who are earnestly seeking a way to practice that is more life-affirming.

🌿 Matriarch Makeover

Original content by Maija, copy edited by Claude.

Last updated: August 6, 2026