There’s something particularly grating about watching a suburban yoga instructor in $200 leggings stand in a circle of tourists, waving a smoldering bundle of sage like they’re warding off invisible mosquitos, and announcing that they’re “clearing negative energy.”
Welcome to the world of modern smudging — where ancient spiritual practices are Xeroxed, mispronounced, stripped of meaning, and sold wholesale at artisan flea markets for $29.99 a bundle.
Let’s be clear. Smudging, in its original form, is a sacred practice. For many Indigenous cultures, it’s a meaningful ceremonial act, a connection to land, spirit, and tradition. It’s not a quick-fix solution for bad breakups, high credit card bills, or that “negative coworker” who doesn’t think your Etsy side hustle is going to make you a millionaire.
But the version you’ll find at New Age expos and pop-up “healing retreats” has about as much spiritual authenticity as a bumper sticker that says “Namaste, Y’all.”
It’s a performance. It’s a script. It’s an excuse to pretend you’re spiritually attuned because you set off a smoke detector in your apartment while chanting about abundance.
I once attended a “Sacred Smudging Ceremony” led by a woman who introduced herself as Sierra Moonwater and confessed, within five minutes, that she had “discovered her inner shaman” after a week-long yoga retreat in Sedona.
She assured us that the sage was ethically sourced, the spirits were friendly, and that “negative energy” could not survive the power of positive intention and “this special $48 healing feather” she bought online.
We waved smoke at each other like confused Boy Scouts trying to start a fire in the rain. We repeated affirmations about opening our hearts and releasing toxicity. We were encouraged to purchase additional “cleansing kits” at the back table, conveniently located next to the kombucha samples and the Sound Bath Experience signup sheet.
The entire event smelled like overcooked pork chops and desperation.
Real smudging deserves respect. Fake smudging deserves a stiff breeze and a cease-and-desist letter.
If you think waving a bundle of dried herbs around your overpriced Airbnb is going to erase your bad decisions, save yourself the money. Open a window. Apologize to the universe properly. And maybe stop confusing spiritual growth with smoke damage.