An open letter to myself, one year after Burning Man

There’s a Burning Man project asking veteran Burners to write letters to the virgin burner they were, to be delivered to others on the playa during the event. I did not write this for that project, but found myself inspired by the concept a couple weeks ago. I realized yesterday the piece feels apropos of some of today’s New Moon themes. — Amanda

Dear Me last year, a Burning Man Virgin:

Everything you are about to experience will be so amazing, touching, difficult, exciting, frustrating and sometimes (believe it or not) slightly anticlimactic, you’ll think that you could never possibly forget it. But guess what?

I was just reading bits of a “Burning Man Lexicon” that someone put together. And when I read about the greeters at the entrance gate inviting first-time Burners — virgins — to ring a bell and lie down on the ground to make a “dust angel,” I suddenly remembered something.

You nearly cried when the Greeter welcomed you home, and you told her you’ve been wanting to come for nearly 9 years and almost didn’t come and yet here you are.

Do you remember that, now? That surprise welling-up of emotion that caught you off guard, that seemed so out of place and silly (you were, after all, arriving someplace to which you had no actual ties yet)? Remember how you stuffed it down out of… what was it? Shyness? Shame? Mere awkwardness? A fear of being so vulnerable so fast, or out of control, or simply inscrutable to yourself?

Yeah — you let it out later that night, at your theme camp’s community meeting/orientation. Well, you let it out as part of some sort of exercise. But that original moment… that had something very deep, and personal, and beyond words driving it. You didn’t think you could do it by yourself. Remember? You thought you needed that mentor/former lover there with you to hold your hand, pay for half of it, keep you feeling “safe” and like you belonged so that you could explore without being alone.

Well, guess what? Feeling that aloneness was — and is — crucial. You got a taste of that, too — though I know you won’t forget that any time soon.

It was the second night, right? (Holy shit — why didn’t you write in your journal while you were there? Oh right, you were very busy and over-stimulated and exhausted. So why didn’t you write about it as soon as you could afterwards, while it was still fresh? Oh yes — you couldn’t figure out where to start, how not to sound dull, stale, boring, trite, over-thought.)

Anyway, as I was saying: the second night. I think. Or the third? Dammit. Whatever it was. Zach had invited you earlier that day at the Center Camp contact jam to come to the lamb roast he was doing at Orgasm Camp (or whatever it was called). And toward the end, having been standing for a long time and sleepy with a little wine, Avianna and her friend were plotting out DJs to go dance to and invited you. And you were psyched… but just needed to lie down for 20 minutes. Just 20 minutes you said.

“Don’t so it! You’ll fall asleep!” warned Avianna.

You swore you wouldn’t. And of course, you did. And you woke up at something like 2 am and decided to go out on a photo mission.

It was cool at first; so may colors and lights, and people and sounds. And you love solo photo-hunting. It’s meditative. But with each random stranger who insisted you had to hug ‘cuz oh gee, we’re at Burning Man and we’ve made a connection, the more disconnected you began to feel…the more alone, the more annoyed with superficial fakeness masquerading as “connection” that was just trying to hug a cute girl at night on the playa.

You visited the Man, all lit up in the night. You climbed inside, sat on one of the rungs/stairs of the structure. Talked for a little while with some guy next to you.

And you. Felt. So. Alone… so disconnected… and suddenly so scared. The judgment came rushing in, a series of faithless questions: “Is this what I’ve brought with me to Burning Man? Is this what I’ve manifested? After nine years and the huge hump I had to get over just to convince myself I could do this alone, this is what I find in myself — some kind of antisocial ineptitude, that I can’t make friends and connect and feel like I belong? Is this what I am being shown — that my true nature is this empty and isolated?”

And you wanted to see the sunrise, but it was fucking cold; and now that you had been sitting for a while, you weren’t making your own heat. And you were too disappointed with yourself and scared to feel like taking any more photos, let alone making shitty small talk with anyone else.

So maybe that was part of what was welling up in you at the front gate: this existential self-doubt. Maybe not. Maybe that moment of being welcomed home really was more about how much you had just accomplished and how close you had been to giving up, or some kind of grateful disbelief? Or maybe the sudden reality of arriving threw into a too-stark contrast your fear of not being enough to live your own life, of not ever being enough to fill it out and see where it can take you. There is a certain terror that can come when standing at the edge of what life could be if you actually show up to live it.

More than likely, all of that was in there somehow. But as you made the long walk back from the Man to 6:30 and Dandelion, shivering, the only reality you knew was that fear of your own emptiness, your harsh judgment of what it must say about you as a human being, and a chilly whisper asking if — hinting — your week would just be more of the same.

It was not, of course. Or it will not be. I guess I’ve lost track of which way time is flowing right now, and who I’m talking to.

Here’s the thing: that undercurrent of isolation is a theme of your life. It’s not a black mark. It’s not the only way you experience life — now, then or in the future. But it will rear its head again at the end of the week, at the Temple Burn. For the Man Burn, you will find some friends, a loose posse plus a kind young man on MDMA who will be very keen to keep you company. It still won’t be like the deep heart-and-soul connections you have made at dance camp, but you will have company that truly welcomes you that night.

The Temple Burn will see you returned to your essential awkwardness: social enough to have friends and acquaintances in various circles, but suddenly lacking a core group of close friends — or even one bestie or lover in particular — whom you are automatically included by, people who cannot imagine experiencing this night without you. Sure, you’ll get a kind invitation from a kind young woman, one of the first you spoke to in your theme camp and a fellow virgin. But she is part of a posse, and it will be all too obvious that you are a third wheel (or fifth — or seventh, actually).

You will not really be with them. And as much as you will be relieved to have some people to bike with to the event, in an odd way you will be just as relieved to let them disappear into the crowd and go your own way. Strangely enough, chosen solitude really is less painful than it is to feel less than completely welcome.

Of course, much, much more will happen that week: a spontaneous altered state; a spontaneous erotic encounter; a spontaneous, perfect afternoon of carefree adventure and inclusion after releasing the emotion of that lonely night of self-judgment and fear; a spontaneous and glorious sensory-deprivation ride into a massive dust storm. You will learn about yourself, and push some limits; you will dance on your edge, and then wish you had sharpened it even more.

You will end up wishing you had given more, created more, “participated” more, let yourself loosen just a little bit more. But when you do, remind yourself what a miraculous feat it was just to fucking get there.

It almost didn’t happen, remember? You almost gave up. You almost let yourself believe that you are not as capable as you are, that you can’t find your own way, or make decisions and trust them.

You can. And you will again. And really, that was all you ever needed to know before you went, but you know damn well that you needed to go to figure it out (or is it more that you needed to remember?).

Going back out into “default world,” you will need reminders to stop forgetting what you learned (or pretending that you’ve forgotten?). Take your lessons with you. They are yours, and even the very smallest ones, the subtlest, have tremendous value.

Remind yourself every day if you have to: you got your ass to Burning Man. And so what if Burning Man is not where you connect the deepest? You know where to go for that. You are loved. And yes: next time, with all the first-time fears and unknowns and bullshit out of the way, you’ll have more to give. Because now you know just how much more you have.