I've been avoiding writing about Burning Man this year because most of my post-burn thoughts are about the post-burn, not the burn itself. The week on playa I can sum up in a few sentences: I had an amazing time with my best friends, saw more art this year, treated my body better and got married to a very dear friend. I felt bonds with certain friends grow stronger. I realized I might be a bit of a nudist and I realized I definitely want to contribute more to any future burns. I spent eight and a half days challenging my body, challenging my brain and challenging my patience when our RV broke down for 7.5 hours just after our 8 hour exodus. I will remember this year fondly, though maybe not quite as fondly as my first. I will always be grateful for the opportunities I have finally found to join my loves on the playa.
I woke up on Saturday, having partied myself out, feeling very ready to leave. As my friends started discussing plans of their early departures, my heart began to feel heavy and the day quickly became night. I put on my favorite outfit I had saved for the last night (gold! gold! gold!), but after watching the man burn, many of us just needed to go to bed. I just couldn't do one more night, so I got a few hours of sleep and woke up in the early hours of the morning to join for one last temple sunrise. I was filled with sadness the second I got there—and it wasn't because of the impending goodbyes. I looked around me and saw groups of my friends in puddles, people I love coupling up, and I was consumed by the feeling that I had no one. In a sea of the most beautiful, wonderful, loving people I know, I felt utterly and completely alone. And I couldn't shake it for the next 24 hours.
Last year I took from the playa the magical realization that I had the most amazing non-family-family anyone could ask for. I felt full and accepted and was gushing with the feeling that I was a part of something big. Because this feeling was so good and so new to me, my re-entry was especially hard because I was dealing with the loss of this. I couldn't help wonder if it would last; would I continue to feel like an important cog in the wheel that is our tribe? Or was this just a fleeting feeling... a Burning Man high that would inevitably come down?
It didn't. The year between burns was amazing; our friends kept in touch across the country and across the world and I think none of us lost sight of the importance of how our friend group has grown and developed into an honest collection of deep friendships and love. So I can check that off my list. Friends: got 'em!
This year my heart was weighed down by a difficult feeling of loneliness. One I hadn't experienced, maybe ever. How was it possible that I can count dozens of people—on the playa and back in the real world—who I would consider true, friends-for-life and still I could feel so empty? I've done a pretty good job of being okay with being a single person in the wake of my friends settling down, but as I looked around and witnessed so many people experiencing that last sunrise in the arms of someone they loved, I felt defeated. And ashamed. I've spent my entire 20s alone. This magical decade when we get to travel and explore and make mistakes and make adventures. The time when no one questions your decisions and when you don't question yourself. I thought of all the things I had missed out on by being alone and of so many things I'll never get to experience with a partner.
I biked back to camp that morning and got a few more hours of sleep before we went into departure mode. Breaking down camp, packing up tents, preparing the RV. Temple burn was strange that night. A good chunk of our group had already left and for some reason, of those who were still there that I loved immensely, I didn't feel close to any of them in that moment. Last year I experienced the temple burn hand-in-hand, with explosions of love and emotion from my friends. This time, I watched the temple burn, surrounded in friends, but completely alone.
The rest was just motion. Back to camp, back to bed, back on the road. I wanted to believe the feelings would go away when the "hangover" wore off and the decompression was complete. But they haven't yet. I went to a wedding last weekend and was overcome with the same emotions. I had such a great time with a different group of friends who I love dearly and felt so much gratitude to have the chance to spend time with these people I'd grown distant from over time. But when I stepped back for a moment and looked around, I was overwhelmed by sadness. I took a walk, stared up at the dark, ranch sky, filled with so many stars my heart was bursting, and I sobbed. Not for Burning Man, but for me. I don't want to be alone anymore. I want someone to share my fears and sadness and joy with. I want someone to help me in my life's decisions. I want to feel that I am needed by someone. That I am the thing that keeps someone solid and grounded. I want to be grounded. I am so lucky to have so much love in my life, but it's not enough.
It's been really hard to come back this year with these feelings. Last year my loss felt great and it saddened me for a long time until I realized that I hadn't really lost anything. But this year, my sadness is about me. I'm no longer able to convince myself that the love of my friends is all I need. And I'm scared that this is a loneliness that will never end. There is no easy remedy.
Burning Man is hard. I went to a beautiful playa wedding this year where the officiant compared marriage to the event—because of its great difficulty and challenges but also because of its love and beauty. "It's tough. Marriage is tough. Burning Man is tough... The playa is not easy. It is work... You will cry and it will be hard, but it will be full of amazing and magical moments."
What an emotional place. I think we go through everything there: joy, excitement, hunger, thirst, hot, cold, fear, euphoria, sleeplessness, aimlessness, loneliness, happiness. I wonder if a single person makes it off the playa without shedding tears? The biggest challenge is to come home and not let the emotion consume you. I've got three more weddings to make it through in the next month. Three more star-gazing, tear-shedding unions and then I hope I can learn to love me alone again. Otherwise, I think I'll have lost this year. And that would be a tragedy... cause I'm told I won the mutombo gold last year.
I woke up on Saturday, having partied myself out, feeling very ready to leave. As my friends started discussing plans of their early departures, my heart began to feel heavy and the day quickly became night. I put on my favorite outfit I had saved for the last night (gold! gold! gold!), but after watching the man burn, many of us just needed to go to bed. I just couldn't do one more night, so I got a few hours of sleep and woke up in the early hours of the morning to join for one last temple sunrise. I was filled with sadness the second I got there—and it wasn't because of the impending goodbyes. I looked around me and saw groups of my friends in puddles, people I love coupling up, and I was consumed by the feeling that I had no one. In a sea of the most beautiful, wonderful, loving people I know, I felt utterly and completely alone. And I couldn't shake it for the next 24 hours.
Last year I took from the playa the magical realization that I had the most amazing non-family-family anyone could ask for. I felt full and accepted and was gushing with the feeling that I was a part of something big. Because this feeling was so good and so new to me, my re-entry was especially hard because I was dealing with the loss of this. I couldn't help wonder if it would last; would I continue to feel like an important cog in the wheel that is our tribe? Or was this just a fleeting feeling... a Burning Man high that would inevitably come down?
It didn't. The year between burns was amazing; our friends kept in touch across the country and across the world and I think none of us lost sight of the importance of how our friend group has grown and developed into an honest collection of deep friendships and love. So I can check that off my list. Friends: got 'em!
This year my heart was weighed down by a difficult feeling of loneliness. One I hadn't experienced, maybe ever. How was it possible that I can count dozens of people—on the playa and back in the real world—who I would consider true, friends-for-life and still I could feel so empty? I've done a pretty good job of being okay with being a single person in the wake of my friends settling down, but as I looked around and witnessed so many people experiencing that last sunrise in the arms of someone they loved, I felt defeated. And ashamed. I've spent my entire 20s alone. This magical decade when we get to travel and explore and make mistakes and make adventures. The time when no one questions your decisions and when you don't question yourself. I thought of all the things I had missed out on by being alone and of so many things I'll never get to experience with a partner.
I biked back to camp that morning and got a few more hours of sleep before we went into departure mode. Breaking down camp, packing up tents, preparing the RV. Temple burn was strange that night. A good chunk of our group had already left and for some reason, of those who were still there that I loved immensely, I didn't feel close to any of them in that moment. Last year I experienced the temple burn hand-in-hand, with explosions of love and emotion from my friends. This time, I watched the temple burn, surrounded in friends, but completely alone.
The rest was just motion. Back to camp, back to bed, back on the road. I wanted to believe the feelings would go away when the "hangover" wore off and the decompression was complete. But they haven't yet. I went to a wedding last weekend and was overcome with the same emotions. I had such a great time with a different group of friends who I love dearly and felt so much gratitude to have the chance to spend time with these people I'd grown distant from over time. But when I stepped back for a moment and looked around, I was overwhelmed by sadness. I took a walk, stared up at the dark, ranch sky, filled with so many stars my heart was bursting, and I sobbed. Not for Burning Man, but for me. I don't want to be alone anymore. I want someone to share my fears and sadness and joy with. I want someone to help me in my life's decisions. I want to feel that I am needed by someone. That I am the thing that keeps someone solid and grounded. I want to be grounded. I am so lucky to have so much love in my life, but it's not enough.
It's been really hard to come back this year with these feelings. Last year my loss felt great and it saddened me for a long time until I realized that I hadn't really lost anything. But this year, my sadness is about me. I'm no longer able to convince myself that the love of my friends is all I need. And I'm scared that this is a loneliness that will never end. There is no easy remedy.
Burning Man is hard. I went to a beautiful playa wedding this year where the officiant compared marriage to the event—because of its great difficulty and challenges but also because of its love and beauty. "It's tough. Marriage is tough. Burning Man is tough... The playa is not easy. It is work... You will cry and it will be hard, but it will be full of amazing and magical moments."
What an emotional place. I think we go through everything there: joy, excitement, hunger, thirst, hot, cold, fear, euphoria, sleeplessness, aimlessness, loneliness, happiness. I wonder if a single person makes it off the playa without shedding tears? The biggest challenge is to come home and not let the emotion consume you. I've got three more weddings to make it through in the next month. Three more star-gazing, tear-shedding unions and then I hope I can learn to love me alone again. Otherwise, I think I'll have lost this year. And that would be a tragedy... cause I'm told I won the mutombo gold last year.
