Wist
I am very disciplined about keeping my dreams in check. I don’t allow myself much time to wish or ponder much other than my reality (which is really good—I promise I count my blessings often). Anyway, in part this habit is an effort to live in the present with my family and “be here now,” as they say. Maybe it’s also a survival mechanism. There isn’t a lot of point in fantasizing about my dream job or what white sand beach I’d like to be lying on when these fripperies aren’t in my cards right now. Honestly, I don’t spend a lot of time doing it.
So I didn’t think about Burning Man much before the start of this week. I watched with casual interest as people I know and love packed up their dusty belongings and trundled off to Black Rock City to be their truest selves for a week. On Monday, opening day of the festival, I imagined driving in to Greeters and falling into that first welcome home hug, the blowing winds, the light so bright you must wear sunglasses. On Tuesday I realized Asher’s present age (2 years and 7 months) is actually just a few months older than Lucas’s age when he first went to the playa in 2004—our ill-fated Burn, when we stayed only 51 hours. I looked at a photo of feverish baby Lucas at Burning Man, trying to have fun despite his racking pneumonia.
On Wednesday, I lost my mind. I had a bad day. My son and I argued and my feelings got hurt. I spent a ton of time driving around lost, listening to Raffi. I had a cranky, overtired baby on my hands. I missed my limited opportunity to work on important projects. In short, I went a little nutso, succumbing to stress and worry and letting stuff get to me. I spent an evening gnashing my teeth in a dear friend’s living room, enumerating all the things that feel out of control and frightening in my world, and crying over all the things I wish I could be doing.
I guess I had to say this painful stuff out loud. Sometimes I need to be heard, no matter how ugly my words sound to my own ears. My patient friend listened, offered me her enduring love, and suggested perhaps it’s OK that I don’t do it all.
It wasn’t until today, Thursday, that my friend and I both realized that I unwittingly followed my own tradition of completely freaking out on Wednesday of Burning Man week. (It’s not only my pattern though. Lots of people experience it, too). It’s the halfway point of the festival. It’s the day when I’m swept up in a whirlwind of intense emotion and physical stress, and all of my normal layers of protection peel off me like so much sunburned skin. A good, intense cry—some serious wailing into the wind— is usually needed on Wednesday. A catharsis of explosive proportions is almost always in order. The shrapnel is actually expected by friends and campmates, and they duck or provide emergency aid or ululate alongside me, as they are able.
I guess this catharsis is needed in real life, too. Sometimes I just have to screech so my own voice will drown out the harpies.
