Shadows and Dust (2019)

We live out our stories with friends who do the same with others. In the right company, a stranger becomes a confidant. At Burning Man, the temple is self selecting with dust and comfort zones as porous walls to a treasure hidden in plain sight. We can find meaning in anonymity, if certain conditions are met.

I stumbled through a thick wall of moving ash. People and objects faded out of vision. The passage of seconds froze and so did my sense of reality, up vs down, cause vs effect. No frame of reference, just gray and eerie, silence and dust.

The temple appeared suddenly, directly ahead, as if the storm shifted momentarily, just for me. I hid inside its walls, my mind still unclear on where, or when I really was.

The temple veils people’s stories behind a wooden canvas with only ink guiding as a clue. No looks, race, or income distorts our sense of connection. We are just people tracing our fingers over a letter that someone poured their heart into some time this week. They may not tell you if you asked, but they tell this building, knowing it will share with the playa.

I wandered around, reading the inscriptions on the temple walls, hearing someone cry.

I read dozens of people’s personal stories.They touched me because I’ve walked in their shoes and share their genes.

Humans are infinitely unique as individuals but behave in a Gaussian at scale. Thus our seemingly personal circumstances can be highly relatable as one zooms out across to the collective.

I teared up over anguish of a stranger only to smile by the jaunty resilience of another, seeing myself in both. We live with personal shadows, like tattoos that fade over time. The open secret is that shadows come from a common darkness but people often fight the world’s darkness alone. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

This place creates an in crowd for all who wish to enter. Giving a safe space to the most gut wrenching of inner dialogues (those are often hardest, as nobody can stop you from lying to yourself.). 

Paradoxically, the dirty laundry is out in the open. This public, collective vulnerability gives such a release that my anxiety was gone the moment I stepped through the door. 

It’s ok to be naked (in more ways than one). People are already crying and each sentence seemingly burned into the wood is that uncomfortable secret finally shared by a best friend.

And yet it’s not your friend. But it could have been. She rode her bike to the temple yesterday, clutching a marker in her hand. Another one, years ago, walked me here, leaving me alone to find the way.

Our life narrative changes through a charged, shared connection, many levels deeper than your average dinner chat. My story also changed, time stopped. The next page of my adventure was blank. I didn’t have to look back at the previous chapters. Those would soon burn.

I felt chills rush through my body as hymn played somewhere outside. A cooling wind swept through the dusty hall of the temple. The sun peeked through the grey milk of the sky and rays bounced off the golden planks of this building-for-a-moment-in-time. The thicker the grey the brighter the golden glitter of light.

Monday, the shadow stories will have burned and the flames will spread across the globe with the human fire flies who carry them home.

People get busy. They get tired. Life plays tricks on us. Remember this place. Remember the light.

The storm passed and I walked out to bathe in the warm light of the playa. I wandered aimlessly, but with a renewed purpose. The now silver light bounced off the artworks I saw nearby. 

I found a heart piece that glowed in the sun. I experienced a suspension of disbelief followed by a very brief suspension of gravity. I was airborne.