Sage and Smudging: When Indigenous Sacred Practices Become Wellness Trend

Confessions of an Adolescent Appropriator

I grew up a student of the occult, exotic world religions, and New Age spirituality. In the 1980s and 90s, this wasn't unusual among certain circles of spiritually curious young people seeking meaning beyond mainstream Christianity. A small group of friends and I would gather at sacred Native American sites—ancient earthworks and burial mounds constructed millennia ago by peoples we scarcely understood—and burn sage bundles, smudging each other as we pantomimed ancient rituals we knew little about.

We walked barefoot across earth mounds, hoping to connect spiritually with the Indigenous peoples who had built them. We waved smoking sage bundles around each other's bodies, mimicking ceremonies we'd read about in books or seen in movies. We spoke of "honoring" these ancient peoples, of "revering" their traditions by incorporating their rituals into our own interpretive spiritual practices.

I thought I was paying respect. I believed I was honoring these cultures by adopting their practices. Looking back now, I can see what I couldn't then: I was viewing Indigenous spiritual practices entirely through my own limited, outsider's perspective—treating sacred ceremonies as spiritual accessories I could pick up and discard as my interests shifted.

The Cherohonkee: A Mirror We Didn't Want to See

Years later, a high school friend wrote a book featuring classic illustrations and caricatures of stereotypes easily identifiable to my generation. One character struck particularly close to home: "The Cherohonkee."

The description was satirical but painfully accurate: "White Baby Boomers who are obsessed with Native American culture... hosting drum circles, making chamomile tea, dancing with wolves... a special breed of New Age Baby Boomers who have a unique affinity for turquoise jewelry, wolves, and Native American culture."

The character profile described "Pale Face Guilt"—a unique type of white guilt that made Cherohonkees feel frustrated by the moral and spiritual shortcomings of their own people. "Unable to identify with WASP culture and heritage, Cherohonkees have an inherent aversion to argyle sweaters, chipped beef, and khakis."

It detailed their love of nature, their weathered appearances from spending time outdoors to "keep it real," their embrace of any religion mentioning "grounding and centering" or "the ebb and flow," and their tendency to refer to experiences as "life journeys" documented in special notebooks.

The satire was cutting because it was true. I recognized myself in that description, and I didn't like what I saw.

The Commercialization of Sacred Practice

What began as New Age seekers playing at Indigenous spirituality has exploded into a massive commercial industry. Sage bundles are now sold on Etsy, Amazon, and in every metaphysical shop and yoga studio across America. "Smudge kits" with instructions are marketed to anyone seeking to "cleanse their energy" or "purify their space." Wellness influencers demonstrate smudging techniques on Instagram and TikTok, often with dream catchers and other Indigenous symbols as aesthetic backdrop.

This commercialization has created real problems for Indigenous communities:

Overharvesting and environmental damage. White sage (Salvia apiana), sacred to many Indigenous peoples of the Southwest, is being harvested unsustainably to meet commercial demand. Some areas have been stripped bare, threatening the plant's survival and Indigenous peoples' ability to access it for their own ceremonies.

Economic exploitation. Non-Indigenous sellers profit from sage and other sacred items while Indigenous communities—who face significant economic challenges—see outsiders making money from their traditions.

Spiritual dilution and distortion. Smudging is a specific ceremonial practice with particular meanings, protocols, and contexts within various Indigenous cultures. When it's reduced to "energy cleansing" and sold as a wellness product, the spiritual significance is gutted, leaving only a superficial aesthetic.

Continued erasure. Indigenous peoples in America have faced centuries of forced assimilation, with their religious practices outlawed and their children punished for speaking their languages or practicing their traditions. Now, as they work to revitalize these practices, they watch non-Indigenous people freely adopt, modify, and profit from what was once forbidden to them.

The Difference Between Appreciation and Appropriation

I do not believe that any people hold a patent on their culture. We are all citizens of the world, and the gifts of one people can certainly benefit others. Cultural exchange has always existed and can be beautiful and enriching.

But there's a crucial difference between cultural exchange and cultural appropriation.

Cultural exchange involves respect, reciprocity, and relationship. It happens when invited, when there's mutual benefit, when the source culture maintains control over how their practices are used and understood. It involves learning the full context and meaning, not just adopting the aesthetic elements.

Cultural appropriation happens when a dominant culture takes elements from a marginalized culture without permission, understanding, or respect—particularly when the dominant culture has historically oppressed the group they're taking from. It involves stripping practices of their original meaning and context, often for profit or personal benefit, while the source community continues to face discrimination.

When we seek to make Indigenous practices exclusively our own, or distort them to the extent that they're unrecognizable to the peoples who once incorporated them into their daily lives, something is fundamentally wrong.

What I Got Wrong

Looking back at my teenage self and those friends gathered at sacred sites, I can see our mistakes clearly:

We assumed access was our right. We asked the spirits, yes—but our arrogant presumption was that they would bother to waste their time on us, that they would validate our shallow understanding of what their practices really meant. We never questioned whether we had any business being there at all.

We treated sacred practices as spiritual experiments. We mixed sage burning with Wiccan rituals, Eastern meditation, and whatever else appealed to us, creating a spiritual hodgepodge that bore no resemblance to actual Indigenous ceremonies.

We romanticized and simplified. We imagined "Native Americans" as a monolithic group with unified spiritual practices, ignoring the reality of hundreds of distinct nations with different languages, customs, and beliefs.

We sought spiritual fulfillment without relationship. We wanted the practices without the responsibilities, the aesthetics without the worldview, the rituals without the relationships and reciprocal obligations that give them meaning.

We never considered consequences. It didn't occur to us that our demand for sage might affect Indigenous access, or that our presence at sacred sites might be unwelcome.

Moving Forward with Integrity

So what should those of us who participated in this appropriation do now? And what should people currently engaging with Indigenous practices consider?

Acknowledge the harm. Even well-intentioned appropriation is still appropriation. Our good intentions don't erase the impact of our actions.

Educate ourselves properly. If we're genuinely interested in Indigenous cultures, we should learn from Indigenous voices, read Indigenous authors, support Indigenous-led cultural programs—not just extract practices we find appealing.

Support Indigenous communities. Buy sage and other ceremonial items only from Indigenous sellers. Support Indigenous-led environmental protection efforts. Advocate for Indigenous rights and sovereignty.

Find our own traditions. Instead of appropriating others' spiritual practices, we can explore our own ancestral traditions or develop contemporary practices that don't rely on taking from marginalized communities.

Accept that some things aren't for us. Some practices are meant to remain within their communities. Accepting this boundary isn't deprivation—it's respect.

Conclusion: The Weight of Sacred Things

Sacred practices carry weight—the weight of history, community, relationship, and meaning developed over centuries or millennia. When we strip them of that weight and turn them into lifestyle accessories or wellness products, we don't honor them. We hollow them out.

I can't undo my adolescent appropriation, but I can acknowledge it honestly and do better now. I can recognize that my desire to "honor" Indigenous peoples by using their practices was really about my own spiritual seeking, not about respect for their sovereignty and survival.

The sage bundles on Etsy, the smudging tutorials from wellness influencers, the drum circles hosted by people with no connection to Indigenous communities—these aren't appreciation. They're the ongoing colonization of Indigenous spiritual life, dressed up in the language of reverence and respect.

We don't honor peoples by taking what's theirs and making it ours. We honor them by respecting their boundaries, supporting their sovereignty, listening to their voices, and allowing their sacred practices to remain sacred—which sometimes means leaving them alone.