“Some things dazzled me, and others I simply detested. But, isn’t that the human condition.” – Paulo Coelho

My boyfriend rolled my suitcase to the car while I followed the trail lines of playa dust behind it. He looked over his shoulder with anticipation, waited for me to divulge the answers found from my journey to Burning Man. The answers I thought I’d have as well.

He kept waiting for me to launch into all of the nitty gritty details, but it wasn’t until we sat in the car that he decided to ask, “So?”

“It was an interesting experience,” I said.

“Interesting?”

“Mmm… like biking around a different planet during the day. And being part of a video game at night.”

“That’s it? Was it what you expected?” he asked.

“I think it’s not what it used to be, what it’s supposed to be.”
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While waiting to board the flight to Reno, I scouted the crowd for fellow Burners. Looking down at my phone, I pretended to read something while eavesdropping on the conversations around me for insight into the experience. There’s really no money exchange? An orgy tent!? What type of life changing people will I meet? I certainly didn’t feel as cool as the glitterati with dreads and dreamcatchers around me.

Without really knowing what to expect in the desert, I managed to set some damn high expectations. Thoughts raced of what stories I’d be coming back with, who I’d be as a person, what spiritual experience I’d have – and I wasn’t even in Nevada yet.

With only a certain number of spaces in the truck to Black Rock, the girls elected me to ride with a different crew of people going to the same camp. I tried to keep my easy going nature, but it was hard not to lose a little momentum when forced to make small talk for several hours.

As we settled in at camp, my phone kept receiving notifications. “I thought we weren’t supposed to have service?” I asked, disappointed because I lacked the self-discipline to completely disconnect.

“We didn’t last y— ”

The RV door opened and P poked his head in the door, “Hey ladies, will y’all be ready to take a ride on the whomp wagon in about 15?”

Whomp wagon? A wagon named after whippets? I started to realize that a core group of the camp were more entranced by disconnection than by connection.

We climbed the steps of the wagon and I giggled as the little illuminated art cars darted every which way. I felt like I was in a video game I didn’t know the rules to, but one in which everyone was a winner. The neon lights & EDM reminded me of the rave scene I outgrew in high school. Squirrel noticed I was quiet. “You okay? You liking it?” she asked.

“Just taking it all in,” I said, looking at all the dilated pupils behind her.

 Six more days of this? Party, Rinse (sparingly) & Repeat?

Out in the disco desert, I found solace at the temple. The temple offered a sweet sound of silence among the sorrow and the goodbyes.

My eyes followed the faces on the wall, loving tales and odes to loved ones. Sitting on a wooden bench, thoughts of Lori fluttered in. I felt ashamed that I didn’t bring anything to commemorate her. I felt as if I owed her a tribute like the ornate ones taped to the beams. I realize now I owed the forgiveness to myself, but at the time I had to really fight to get past the sharpie squiggles and the hand trembles. I fought through to find myself acknowledging the guilt I held on to for not being there the last two weeks of her life. The tears dotted the bench with each scribble of my hand.

I looked up as a woman sat next to me. I don’t know if she saw the pleading look in my eyes, the tear stained face, or the overall despair. Sometimes, I think she saw something in me that she recognized in herself. But, whatever it was, she hugged me as if I were family until I realized it was time to let go.

As I pedaled across the playa to camp, the wind blew in the breakdowns. The growing beat of the music amplified the fact that I didn’t want to be there anymore. Doors opened. Doors closed. Voices raised. Covers tossed. Lights on. Lights off.

Squirrel stomped outside, “Please turn the music down. We’re trying to get some rest. Just have a little respect.”

“Respect our right to party!”

The music from the amps grew louder before she could get even the RV’s door closed.

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

My friends and I fought to find mental clarity. Half of them wanted to dance far past the sunrise and half wanted to rest up for daylight adventures. Two of us wanted to leave.

“This is the only week all year we get to be like this,” Trixie said as she threw her arms out and spun around in circles before plopping down to make sand angels.

I must’ve had one of those looks on my faces. One of those does she not remember we’ve seen her naked in a hot tub on a Tuesday type of looks.

“Y’all are really going to leave this?” she continued.

“It’s my burn, right?” I said.

I came to Burning Man thinking I’d find my therapy, but I ended up hitching a ride back into Reno with a psychiatrist.
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My boyfriend placed the suitcase in the closet, and I curled into his arms. Entranced by the deep feeling of relaxation. Now, this is home. A couple weeks passed without a single mention of Burning Man. I felt better avoiding the disappointment and strained conversation. But like other issues I’ve attempted to avoid in the past, it had a funny way of popping back up.

I walked to check my mail and noticed a shiny postcard on top of the stack of grocery sale papers. Turning the postcard back and forth, I noticed the ornate detail of the Vatican. Interesting. Who do I know that went to the Vatican? (And who do I know that sends postcards… that’s usually me!) I read the bubbly handwriting and double checked that it was indeed addressed to me. And then I remembered the day we explored and biked around eating snow cones, drinking wine, watching booty shaking contests, placing our addresses in a mailbox seeking pen pals.

In the year since the last Burning Man, I’ve received short stories, books, stickers, letters —  all without a return address. Each one surprised and delighted me. At first, no return address bothered me because I wanted to write her back. And then it dawned on me that she wrote me a la playa philosophy style — giving without expecting anything in return.

The letters refreshed my spirit like ice, cold water did in the desert. And taught me once again that the biggest delights are found in the unexpected.

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If you would’ve told me a year ago when I burned out of Burning Man that I’d feel an odd sense of longing to be there, I wouldn’t have believed you. The little notes made me reevaluate my overall experience. I realized I set out seeking external solutions for internal issues and I’d never find the answer that way. The reoccurring gift allowed me to take a step back and appreciate the moments at Burning Man that were amazing even if the bad seemed to initially outweigh the good. So caught up in my expectations, I didn’t allow myself to enjoy all the moments.

I realized I still had a story in my experience — it just wasn’t my anticipated ending. “Peace out, Playa!” evolved into finding more of the “peace out on the playa.” And I’m okay with that. It’s interesting what a long year and a little perspective will do.