My family name, Licht, came from my German ancestors who made candles—the family crest features a candle—so it’s no wonder that I think about lighting a lot.
The most important thing about building a sauna is creating the right atmosphere. It’s not just about temperature, it’s about engaging all of the senses in a soothing way. The sauna is a sweat bath, light therapy, aroma therapy, and talk therapy session all rolled into one.
With that in mind, I think hard about the quality of the light in the sauna room.
Although all sorts of colored LED and optic fiber lights are available, I try to avoid any electric lighting. In fact, if it is a traditional woodburning unit, I avoid electricity entirely. Not only is it not needed to run a woodburning sauna, but if there is an electric line to the building then there will be a temptation to add outlets and harsh outdoor lighting. The next thing you know, someone is plugging in some beeping device or the light is blotting out the night sky and the whole experience is compromised. What you want is dim light that will let your eyes adjust to the darkness and that will make even the most modest bather feel comfortable, even if their towel happens to slip off. A few candles can be just enough to light the sauna room. The problem with candles is that they will melt in the sauna—even if you don’t light them! To solve this, I install a candle window above the mantle so the candle (or lantern) stays in the dressing room and lights both rooms.
I also consider daylighting and place windows to allow for natural light without compromising a sense of privacy. When rough framing the windows, I leave space so that the window placement can be adjusted to frame the perfect view when seated on the bench (but not the perfect view from outside).
In an electric sauna, I will often put a light under the bench, with a dimmer, so that there is no harsh light, only a soft glow that sweeps across the floor. No one wants to stare at a glowing light fixture (which is exactly the situation in most commercial units). Whatever the situation, I work with the light to create just the right ambiance.
Just beyond the reaches of the village of Trumansburg is the settlement of Podunk. When I was growing up, it was home to some thirty people and a cross-country ski shop. The place was run by Osmo Heila, a Finn, who also sold steam juicers and sauna stoves. Ozzie was an ambassador for all things Finnish. There was a rustic ski lodge, a modest circuit of trails, and a sauna. I was good friends with the family and spent winters there skiing the trails and summers taking saunas and hanging out by the creek.
The original owner of the property, Wilho “Willie” Uitti, was also Finnish, and following tradition, he built the sauna before the house. It was constructed with locally cut wood and with a modest profile. Despite a few upgrades over the years, it maintained a typical Finnish pragmatic aesthetic. New parts were eschewed in favor of jerry-rigged repairs, like the paint can that became part of the stove-pipe. There were a few feminine touches, like curtains in the dressing room, but the sauna room contained only the bare essentials: stove (or kiuas) with its pile of rocks, a water tank heated by the stove, simple benches, and buckets, brushes, and loofas for washing. A window, propped open with a stick, provided ventilation. The spalled concrete floor had a drain and wooden slats, called duck boards, to walk on. The pine wall boards had resinous knots that oozed sap into shapes that made us think of strange creatures, like a speeding weasel. Returning to Podunk in the years after high school, it always seemed the same. The same mementos were in the dressing room, the same plastic buckets were on the benches, and the creatures on the wall had barely moved. But, like the creek meandering behind the sauna, the sauna was slowly changing: being swallowed by the bushes, sinking into the earth, and eroding away.
Taking a sauna consisted of several sessions of heating up, each followed by a cooling down or a plunge into the creek, and lastly, a scrub and a rinse in the sauna room. Afterwards, we relaxed in the house and shared food and drink. Eventually, somebody looked at a clock and we suddenly became aware of the hours that had passed. We called this lost sense of time sauna time.
Applied to everyday life, sauna time means slowing down, stepping away from technology, and observing the subtle changes. It is an appreciation of all that is impermanent. The continuity of life doesn’t come from holding onto things, but from the rituals, traditions, and relationships that one carries in their heart. As the sauna at Podunk slowly degrades into a pile of boards, I am reminded that sauna is much more than just a building and that building saunas is about much more than just carpentry.
