From The Ashes, Rise

A Story of Redemption

Written: 11.8.2013

So last post, I was talking about my disappointment as the week began, and I promised to share the magic that was born out of that frustration. That talk put things in perspective for me, and I came to realize, the energy that I thought was being wasted, wasn’t all in vain. Seeing the amount of food, and fuel, and water that were being carted in, and consumed there in the desert, wasn’t simply waste. It opened my eyes to the realization that, no matter where you are, humans consume X amount of food every day, and X amount of water, and X amount of energy (whether it’s from fossil fuels, wood, solar, geo-thermal, or whatever). That’s fixed, it’s a constant.

Humans need to consume in the process of living. The same goes for everything. Everything in nature is both a consumer and a producer. The law of the conservation of energy tells us that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, and Einstein’s Theory of Relativity shows us that matter and energy are but the same thing, simply in different forms. So what that means is that, what’s here, has always been, and always will be. It’ll simply be ordered and re-ordered by the various life-forms present in that moment.

This translates very real-ly to that art on display, in the desert, at that moment. There were countless expressions strewn throughout that magic wasteland; their form didn’t matter in the least, what mattered was the order they were given by their creators. The energy, the intention, the message, these were what mattered. These artworks were expressions; gifts freely given, shared with community, offered to those who wished to enjoy them. If you didn’t like something, fine, look for something you do like, or simply contemplate that which you don’t. It really didn’t matter, you were free to do anything; live, that was all that was expected of you.

I started to see all of the energy and effort of the various camps and individuals not as exercises in fleeting futility, but as fantastic, fleeting expressions of beauty, and love, and community. I came to appreciate all of the energy, and input, and passion that people had put into their expressions, and I was overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude. I felt like all of these people were sharing themselves with me, but not just with me, but with everyone. There was an overwhelming sense of love that almost crackled through the air.

Then my friend, aptly referred to as The Voice of Reason, told me a story about some brave souls on the south face of the desert. She told me that she saw them clearing their tent off that morning, and it had been covered in 6 inches of sand. It turns out that all of the dust storms that we experience on the Playa come from somewhere, and more often than not, they come off the open Playa. The winds whip up on the open expanse before us, and they begin to break where they first strike, the southern face. I realized that those wondrous souls, strong, stalwart folk who braved the face of the open desert, were being pummeled — their tents being flattened on the daily by gale-force winds — as a gift to the Black Rock community.

I noticed as the week wore on, and as more people packed up their things to go, that the desert seemed a little more hot, the little oases and respites were fewer and farther between, and the wind was more fierce than ever. I realized at that moment, as The Voice of Reason told me the story of the southern face, that the community I’d been so disappointed in, (because it seemed like everyone had trucked everything in, and there was waste and extravagance all around), was ephemeral, and it was fleeting because that was its intention. What had seemed like opulence, which I’d looked upon with derision, was actually a paradise, a warm embrace of love and community. I’d taken for granted how easy it had seemed to live in the desert, one of the most inhospitable places on earth, because the harshness of the desert was shrouded in the strength of community.

I felt an amazing sense of gratitude for everyone I met those following days in the desert. I came to see and appreciate these wanderers as pillars of community. It was everyone, each and every person, who came to Black Rock City and said “Here, here, I shall build. Something temporary, yes, but full of meaning, something I shall build with my community, my family, my love. Yes; here, I shall build.”

It’s hard to put in to words the sense of peace and calm I felt moving forward from that moment. I felt as if I was walking on clouds as the week progressed. I’m not saying it was without its ups and downs, my heart was broken one night on the Playa, but I think I broke my own heart that night, and pursued a path which was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and there were moments of terror out there, as well. As we packed up and prepared to disembark, news of a storm brewing in the east [RESEARCH AND CONFIRM STORM DIRECTION] spooked the community, and people hastened to pack-up and ship out, lest they get stuck in the desert when the rains came. As an informational tid-bit, when it does rain, the moisture on the Playa leads to ruts, which will lead to cracks and fissures on sacred land over the course of the year when Black Rock City lies dormant. To prevent this, the city is locked-down, traffic in and out is halted, and you’re either in, or you’re out, but there’s no in-between.

After we packed up and began our departure, news of the impending storm ramped up, and I was struck with terror, and regret, over those who had been left behind. I kicked myself, disappointed and frustrated that I hadn’t stuck around ‘til morning to make sure every last one of my friends made it out. I began to pine to return, to be magically picked up, and dropped back in the desert, so I could help those friends of mine who surely hadn’t made it out yet. I began to panic as news spread about a potential 3-day wait before they’d open traffic into and out of the city again. “How will they survive?!?,” I wondered. The day before, everyone was throwing stuff away, packing it up and shipping it out, as they’d all thought it was done, the festival was over, “Until next year!,” they’d all said.

“There’s no way they’ve got enough food, or energy, or shelter to survive another 3 days in the desert. Not if they haven’t planned for it. The desert was getting rough the previous couple of days, it would be a barren wasteland once so many had left; how would they survive?,” I wondered. I was really beside myself with worry; I simply couldn’t handle it. The next 36 hours were tumultuous, and I remember I was an emotional wreck all throughout. The drive was beautiful, epic views of the grand beauty of nature pervaded the mountains on our way back to the Bay Area, but I was torn. I simply couldn’t convince myself it would all be okay. I couldn’t settle until I knew for certain.

We got home to Redwood City later that night, about 12 hours from our departure if I remember correctly. But it was still yet another 12 hours before my first friend got in touch, she’d made it back to San Francisco safely. I asked about the others, but she didn’t know. They were still there when she left, but she was sure they’d be fine. A few hours later, another friend got in touch, then another, and then another. Finally, within about 36 hours, I’d confirmed with all of my friends that 1) they’d survived, and 2) they’d gotten out, albeit a little worse-for-wear.

So that’s that, a little bit of the roller-coaster that was my experience at Burning Man this year. One of the best, and simultaneously the worst, weeks of my life. Next time I’ll write about a few of the characters I met in the desert, and how our encounters shaped and changed my life and time in the desert and afterwards. And then I’d like to share the roller-coaster and even further transformative experience I enjoyed at the SF Decompression. For now, I’d like to say thanks; thanks for tuning in, and for what you’ve done to shape our journeys so far.

As always, please post any comments, questions, and concerns in the box down below, or shoot us an email at expressions@community2point0.org.

Thank you, always,

John