Temple Stories

Blackbird

everythingisablaze — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 10:35:00 -0700

I decided to write because of your mention of the man singing Blackbird when you arrived at the temple (more later). - This was my first year at the burn, and on Saturday morning, I woke up before sunrise and decided to walk to the temple to enjoy the welcoming of the new day. It took much longer than I expected, and the sun had already cleared the mountains by the time I arrived. I meandered through, taking note of all the people crying, wailing, thinking to myself, “Stupid hippies, just learn to live through your emotions and you won’t need this exorbitant display of grief.” - Maybe they do need it, they need to show people that they too, have emotions, maybe their roles in the default world won’t allow them to show that they really are human…

I had been watching the temple being constructed all month. I came as a crew member of Burn Wall Street, and while our crew was run like a military crew, with a mega-phone wake up call at dawn every day, “Get up! Get up! Gotta get up to get down you fucking hippies!”, the temple crew seemed like it was run as some sort of weird, cultish religion. There were regular gong ringing, to which we responded with loud horn sirens and hoots (doubt they heard us, but maybe). They had tea time, we were allowed to tap a keg of PBR when we had been yelled at enough for one day. Naturally, the first time I approached the temple, I had already been building up this premonition that it was going to be full of crying hippies (I use this word in the most generic way, as I believe anyone who is willing to camp in the dust for a week is a fucking hippie, myself included.) After a few minuets of looking at the scrawlings and photos, I had reached my fill of seeing all this sorrow, hearing the grief, seeing the opportunists scrambling to have their photo taken at the temple at sunrise, (I actually saw the spitting image of Woody Harrelson, clad in a disco-ball tuxedo, spinning in the sunlight, surrounded by a horde of photographers.) “Typical,” I thought.

When I left the gates, I saw some sort of display outside, I imagine it was the cocoon thing you mentioned, but by this time I was so thouroghly disgusted with the tradition people instilled in this wooden structure, that I had to leave. I made it out, and began to walk towards the sun, but was overcome by this feeling to sit and bathe myself in its warmth. As I laid back, and let myself be filled with the tangential energies that were bouncing around the temple, I suddenly started to sing Blackbird, and when I opened my eyes, several people had sat beside me and had joined in with the melody. I got up, none of them seemed to notice, and I began my walk back to camp for some dusty coffee and bacon.

— sparklpants

The Temple of Whollyness

everythingisablaze — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 21:46:17 -0700

The Temple of Whollyness:

The Temple of Whollyness has been revealed. It’s a massive pyramidal complex made entirely of interlocking puzzle pieces of wood, without any metal hardware. This kind of construction looks and feels organic, like something naturally produced by intelligent life forms — because, of course, it is.

It’ll also go up like the Fourth of July.

"I slept at a temple— and now with such seriousness I watch the moon"

everythingisablaze — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 15:10:00 -0800

“I slept at a temple—
and now with such seriousness
I watch the moon”

- Matsuo Bashō

Temple of Gracelessness

everythingisablaze — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 11:07:31 -0800

In the middle of the afternoon on the middle day of my Burn, I was sitting in the middle of a bench in the temple, working through the problem of my fairly happy life. After many years of struggle, my life had recently started to straighten itself out. My projects were bearing fruit. I had my health. I had found love.

Problem was, could I trust it? For the sake of myself and the people I loved, I was going to have to own this good life, take action, build on it. It was no longer right for me to hide and hope, to expect the worst, to stay small and safe. But as soon as I got to the threshold of believing that everything could really be okay, I’d start thinking about my family. All their hopes and suffering and directives and defeats, the small kindnesses they could never dare to depend on. My martyred mom, my angry, exploited dad, my alcoholic brother, all the suffering I’d grown up with, all the suffering my parents had grown up with, on and on, far-flung ancestors and recently deceased relatives. How could I depend on my hard-won happiness when they never even had half of it?

I called it survivor guilt, and I knew I was going to let go of it. I didn’t know how that was going to happen, exactly, but I brought along a red marker in hopes of writing whatever needed to be written on the wall of the temple, so that days later I could watch it burn.

All kinds of creatures were lying around the temple, dressed variously for shock or comfort, some meditating, some talking, some just dozing. In one corner, a pair of temple guardians played flute and drum. Nice enough. I didn’t pay it much attention, until a woman in a beautiful costume started dancing and the music began dancing with her, playing off her, building to an amazing crescendo. You could practically see the waves of energy swirling around everyone, uniting and lifting spirits up into the filigreed peak above the altar –

Until a woman’s tense voice crashed through the door. “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but does anyone know where to find a Ranger? A guy was parachuting into camp and his chute didn’t open and we need some help.” You could feel her straining to stay calm. A flock of people rose and moved to the southern door to lend a hand.

Inside the temple, the spell was broken. The exaltation of the music was a perfect stained glass window, now lying in shards on the ground.

All was quiet. The musicians stayed put. The energy fell quietly like mist. Long minutes passed in silence. Then, a few quiet percussive strokes. A small twitter on the flute. Plenty of space between the notes, testing the waters. I got deeper into my meditation, and soon the music came back, no longer a rising motive power, but a low, respectful undercurrent.

Then, a bellow at the eastern door. In burst a guy looking like an S&M jester, gleefully looking for people to spank. He yelled some bawdy invitations and expletives and chased people around, giving them a swift swat on the bum with his oversized paddle. Then he ran back out.

The commotion roused me from my trance. Dude! I thought. I’m meditating over here! I’m over here trying to get into lovingkindness and connect with the world as it is now and get rid of all my ancient, fucked-up shit and be more present and you can’t just come in here and… Oh.

Oh! This IS the world I’m trying to connect with – the one that’s vulgar and ridiculous and freewheeling and intentionally tries get you mad, get you off kilter – yup, that sounds like the world all right! Heads around me turned as I started laughing. That’s the world you need to be awake with, exactly the way it is, whether you have your way with it or it has its way with you.

I knew what I had to do. But before I could get up to write, a woman’s voice called out from the southern door. “Could we all say a prayer for the parachutist who fell?” she asked.

I felt everyone’s attention turn inward, getting ready to pray with all their power, when from the opposite door another woman burst in. “The parachutist is okay! He’s going to be okay!” she shouted excitedly. Laughter broke out and people looked at each other. We all knew there wasn’t time for our prayer to have had an effect, if you even believed in that sort of thing. But we may as well take credit for it. High fives all around – damn, we’re good!

As the energy settled down, I decided it was time to go. I picked up my red marker and stood up on the bench. My hand hovered next to the large space I had chosen on a wooden beam just above my head. Where to start?

Then I realized it was a whole lot simpler than that. I wrote, “I forgive you.” I looked it at, then put the cap back on the pen. I smiled, gathered my stuff and walked out.

Immersed in grateful wonder, I failed to notice how low the doorway was. Smack! My forehead slammed into the beam and I saw stars. “OMG, are you okay?” said a well-coiffed young seeker, the sort I would have hoped to impress with my chill piety. I laughed. “Fine. Thanks.” Hugs.

When the temple burned I cried and rejoiced, just like everyone else. The memories were still there, the tether to my family as fierce as ever, but the pain and guilt were truly gone. The bruise on my forehead stuck around for a while, though – a reminder of the great gift of that irreverent jester’s figurative smack in the ass.

— MetaKim

Finding hope at the Temple in 2009

everythingisablaze — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 15:48:09 -0800

In October of 2007 I was diagnosed with a grade 3 oligo-astrocytoma, a rare form of brain cancer that is virtually always fatal. After a year of brutal treatment, including chemotherapy and radiation, I was told in November of 2008 that the doctor’s had done all they could for me and I likely had “weeks or months” to live. My wife and I decided to move in with my parents in rural southern Ohio so that I could die around family. Months passed and MRI after MRI showed that, despite the lack of ongoing treatment, the tumor was not growing.

Hope is a double-edged sword when battling cancer. You need hope to keep going, but a battle against cancer is full of cycles of hopes raised and dashed. It takes great courage to continue to hope knowing the great probability of disappointment that faces you. It was in the context of these same thoughts that I decided to return to the Playa in 2009 after having missed the previous 2 years. It was my way of committing to believe I would live despite the probability that I wouldn’t.

As the months passed and the Burn approached I found myself increasingly anxious, wondering if my tumors would remain stable or if my hopes would be dashed at the last minute. Each dollar and hour I invested in planning and putting together my ‘burn kit’ represented to me a commitment that I would make it there. I had t-shirts printed saying “I’m not dying of cancer, I am LIVING with cancer”.

Finally the day came when I passed through the BM gates in the late evening. The next morning I went directly to the temple and wrote those same words on the Temple, willing the flames at the end of the week to burn away my fears the the temple. I began to weep then, as I am weeping now, overpowered by the simple thought that life is possible.

I return to the Playa this year for the first time since then. As then, I find myself renewed in my fight, having been diagnosed with a recurrence of my cancer in 2011. My cancer is still here, and still threatens my life every day, but my journey back to the Playa represents a triumph over fear, not by conquering it, but by accepting it, understanding it and embracing it.

Burning man is a culture of giving. I have neither the time, nor the skill nor the ability to create great art installations or mutant vehicles, or to commit weeks to cleaning the Playa or preparing it. I deeply appreciate everyone who does. My gift is the one thing I can give. My gift is hope, and the message that hope is possible and life is possible, even when the odds and the weight of reality tell you it isn’t.

— Ted Chapman

The Transformation

everythingisablaze — Sat, 26 Jan 2013 15:00:13 -0800

In the last 4 years my uncle, my dad, my mom, then my brother had passed away. Up until the burn i had some pretty tough times in my life and i still do actually. That was all about to change. At Burning Man i was finally able to let go of them at the Temple. The night before the burning of the Temple i went into the Temple to write down words of love for my loved ones and said a prayer for them. The next night as the Temple burned i hug my fellow burner family as i cried. I then began to pray and meditate for my loved ones. Inside my minds eye i saw red lights transform into flowing blue lights that radiated throughout my body then bursting outwards in rays of blue light into the surrounding atmosphere around myself. When i finally opened my eyes again i knew that the rest of my life would be different and that i would be better. Burning Man has changed my life. The thing i love most about Burning Man is that i fell in love with the people of Burning Man. I may have lost my old family but i had just gained a new FAMILY <3

— Bill Ball

Yogyakarta, Java The second morning, 4:00 a.m. or so:...

everythingisablaze — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 15:02:22 -0800

Yogyakarta, Java

The second morning, 4:00 a.m. or so: “Allaaaaaaaaaahu akbar! Allaaaahu ak-BAR!” We wake up. It’s still dark. Three mosques within a mile begin their calls to prayer at the same time. Some of them are more enthusiastic than others.

My brother and I both take the opportunity to shuffle to the toilet, which is outside. As we step out of the door, the three warbling voices turn into ten or twenty, some very faint. This muttering chorus reverberates around the city every single morning.

— Jon

Photo by my brother, Sam.

Prambanan Just arrived in Java They’re visiting with...

everythingisablaze — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 10:01:41 -0800

Prambanan

Just arrived in Java

They’re visiting with their school group from Surabaya. They don’t see American boys very often.

“Mister! Will you take picture with me?”

Okay, sure.

Borobudur

24 hours of sightseeing later

This structure is exquisite. I’ve never seen such a long story carved in stone before. You know, I can really identify with parts of the Buddha’s story. Maybe I am a Buddhist after all this time.

“Mister! Will you take picture with me?”

No. Enough. Go away.

— Jon

Photo by my brother, Sam.

Taman Ayun, Bali Morning: As we ride down a steep dip in the...

everythingisablaze — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 15:33:00 -0800

Taman Ayun, Bali

Morning: As we ride down a steep dip in the road and suddenly head back up, the woman in front of me shifts gears frantically. Something cheap and plastic breaks, her chain flies off, and she stops dead. All the bikers behind her scatter. Some bail and land on the road. I manage to get around her, and as I puff my way up the hill alone, I curse her under my breath.

Noon: We reach the temple, the midpoint in our day. Wayan explains to us the cycle of karma. As he tells it, belief in karma provides unshaking positivity for the Balinese. Your actions are guaranteed to come back to you, so how can you be anything but positive?

Afternoon: On the first uphill climb after we leave the temple, I shift too quickly and throw my chain. As everyone whizzes past me, I can only laugh at myself and my greasy hands. The karma must be stronger here.

— Jon

Photo by my brother, Sam.

2005

everythingisablaze — Sun, 09 Dec 2012 13:58:37 -0800

I moved toward the burning flames. As close as I could stand to the center of the smoke and heat. I knew I had to circle three times, three times round for this ritual I was creating. I walked as slowly and meditatively as I could, with those others pushing and surging from all sides, to get toward or away from the crumbled, burning temple. It was Sunday night. I was sober. I was alone in the crowd. I looked for him. We had reconnected miraculously the evening before, during the chaos and celebratory madness around the cinders of the Man. Of all those people, of all the souls, he appeared in front of me. I had said to him, I know you! And he had greeted me, without speaking, with a passionate kiss. We played all night, running around the dark playa, offering fresh coconut water and healing to others, touching and kissing with passion and abandon. I had lost him in the wee hours, and unable to find our meeting place among all the other tents grey and drab in the predawn, I trudged back to my camp alone. And as I circumambulated the hot coals, the burning sorrow, the tears, the solemn faces lit red, I looked for him. I passed two women, clad in ripped white fabric, skin rubbed with grey ashes, twisting and contorting in the agony of Butoh. They shrieked silently, bare-chested, their beautiful bodies now containers for decay and destruction. Their audience looked horrified, mesmerized. They were death incarnate, all the mortality and pain of life. I walked on. Looking for him. I passed drum circles, couples, people offering items grasped in their hands for immolation. Round and round. I walked. Skin aflame. Everything glowing. And then he appeared in front of me. Drew me to him. He said, I knew I’d find you here. We joined again in the passionate dance of our bodies, arms holding, mouths kissing, hands touching. Heat and heat and heat. We left the dying flames, and made love in his small tent. Our breathing hard, our bodies cold from the night and burning from within. Joining together, so that we could part. I slipped out of the tent alone, to find my camp and drive back “home.”

— Limen Lioness

Poly Confessions

shabadahabada — Thu, 06 Dec 2012 16:41:01 -0800

It was the fourth consecutive day she went to the Temple of Juno. She was inside the main Temple building for some time. Meditating. Reflecting. She wandered out into the courtyard, to the outer fence. She felt like writing something where there was still an open canvass. It was Thursday.

She knelt on the bench facing the Temple’s outer fence that was separate from the main building. A long piece of wood running diagonally was an empty slate. It was the kind of area someone would easily over look. She would be able to write in large, long letters. The wood had a fine layer of playa dust that she forcefully inscribed on with her pink sharpie.

“I could be monogamous if I was with the right person, but I don’t think I can tell my partner that.”

Unknowingly, a man had taken her photo from the other side of the fence. He showed her his work. It was a decent capture of the moment.

It seemed like he may have glanced at what she had written. She felt slightly relieved that someone knew of her guilt.

— Anonymous

Impermanence

shabadahabada — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 13:00:00 -0800

From my first time at Burning Man in 2007, the temple has been a place for renewal, reflection, meditation, and connection. Each year I wrote to those who are gone, to the past, to the future; took photos of the temple and the writings. This year was different. I had a hard year of tragedy and death, lost friends and family, had friends who faced their own illness, traumas, and deaths in their families. The losses hurt, and each one, mine or those of my friends, feels like another movement of the clock. A turn of the spiral, the shadow lurking behind my left ear, the whispered reminder, the limits of time.

I biked from the city cacophony to the temple, gazed at the beauty of the work, the pleasing proportions of the design, the intricacy of the filigreed walls, and stepped into the courtyard. The temple rose from its center, spire high into the cloudless blue. Dust remained on the ground, and the air filled with solemnity. Wait. What? How did crossing that threshold make this kind of difference? Yet, there it was. Quiet. Thought. Emotion. Pain. I took a deep breath. Wandered a bit reading what others had written. Smiled at some of the photos, people in their joyous moments before the cancer took hold or before the suicide or before life melted away from them.

I took photos of the building and the memorials, my eye drawn to writings and drawings, wishes for all and wishes for release.

I entered the temple, admiring the handicap access ramp.

I could have used the stairs but a ramp felt right in that moment, the gentle incline up and over a threshold, more fluid than the sharp step up, step up, step down, step down. Inside, several people sat in silent yoga meditation, eyes closed, palms up resting on knees. A young man, wind tossed blond hair, one lock falling forward, played the sitar. His music offered peace, roamed the space, gave it weight and heft, a rhythm to the sighs and quiet tears of people sitting, writing, standing.

I listened a while, feeling centered and focused, then looked for a place to write my truths and sadness. The temple felt filled and I couldn’t find a suitable comfortable place for my words. I meandered out to the courtyard.

I found a round of wood on one of the altars. Turning it over in my hand, it felt right. Light with some roughness on the edges. No one had written on either side yet. I said goodbye to those who died. Goodbye Betty. Goodbye Suzanne. Goodbye Marilyn. Goodbye Diane. I wished for a peaceful death for Linda and healing for those who suffer. I wrote, “May the flames carry their spirits and ours, as we learn to live fully again, to grieve deeply, to carry with us always the wonder of their lives into the future of our own.” I sat dripping tears in the warm day under a storybook sky.

Back inside the temple people lined the benches. I sat among the others to write, to settle, to breathe. An older woman, perhaps like me in her sixties, perhaps younger, held a smallish triangular, stringed instrument on her lap which she played by plucking and strumming. Amazing Grace, Simple Gifts, and another appropriate melody. By the end of her playing I felt a bit wrung out, but restful.

Ready to move on, I told her, “Thank you, that was healing,” and burst into tears. Okay. Guess I was not done. She stood immediately and hugged me, held me. We talked a while about aging. The longer we live, the more we outlive others. And the deaths pile up. The world changes with each one. I am reminded by my shrinking human environment that time is limited, a flash, that it is time to do what I will do. She, Anna, works with elders and wrote a song about the joys and opportunities of age. We talked about those joys and opportunities, the way the years pile wisdom, and hugged goodbye. As I approached the ramp out of the temple, she called my name. She had a copy of her song, here, it was for me. Thank-you, Anna, thank-you.

I walked out of the courtyard onto the playa where the air shifted. Dustier and more of a breeze. I felt lighter, integrated, centered, even happy. Ready for whatever adventures remained in the day. A man stood by his bike which had a sign attached: I Ching Readings. Why not? Not much of a believer in divination of any kind, nonetheless, why not? I asked if he would do a reading for me, in honor of my tai chi teacher who died this year. I threw the coins. He counted. Looked it up. The Gathering: Lake over Earth, the joyous over the receptive. Yes. And so we were. Here on the lake over earth. Receptive. Joyous. Gathered.

— Barbara Alderson

I know of what you speak....

everythingisablaze — Sun, 18 Nov 2012 13:01:00 -0800

I saw him, the Entity…. He came into the inner temple slowly, not quite staggering. Frightening if he took flight, we was tall, like 7 feet, maybe more. A spiny dorsal fin was black to match his wings, large insect eyes, and tendrils from what would have been a mouth if he were a man. Every deliberate quiet step by shiny black spring legs that ended in a claw was guided by a woman who wore normal human clothes, unassuming and making sure, I realized, that he didn’t fall.

He paused as he saw the spot - an empty seat on the bench in the corner in this peaceful crowded sanctum. He approached it, now off her arm. I could not take my eyes off him. He wavered, and one could not help but feel the weary heart, the tentative approach he made to the bench, at first wanting to reach for it and then pulling back, careful not to fall and hurt himself or anyone else. This towering, powerful, horrible beast hesitated to sit down for a moment as he turned to steady his gate… Tears rolling down my cheeks. I was unprepared, and I glance up at his witness, who was already weeping as she watched. We watched him descend to his seat with a gentle thump and bow.

He started with the straps, and one by one, the appendages that were his fly-like feet came off and into the dust. Wings, skin, eyes - all came to the Temple floor. Tears completely overcame me as I thought, even the demons are tired.

— Jane

Mosquito Man

everythingisablaze — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 13:01:55 -0800

(Photo by Wolfram Burner on Flickr.com)

I worked an uneventful shift on Wednesday morning as a Temple Guardian, and toward the end of my stay there, I saw Mosquito Man walk through the courtyard by himself. His attire made me question if I’d ever seen a better costume at Burning Man. That question sat with me for the day or two after.

I went back on Sunday to work the burn perimeter shift, arriving around 3pm, and over the next three hours I assisted in slowly creating and enforcing the viewing perimeter for that evening’s Temple Burn. The Temple Guardians gathered bikes, moved cones, talked to people, answered questions, and as it got close to sundown, I noticed in my tidying up the courtyard that Mosquito Man left his costume behind. His stilts and other props were neatly piled in a corner, and I wondered if I was the only one that recognized what they were.

Did he leave them there on purpose? Was he coming back for them? What should I do with them?

Ultimately, we decided to remove them from the temple and send them to the lost and found in center camp… but I have this feeling he wanted to let them burn. I felt a weird sadness about this situation because his presence was so stunning mid-week, why would anyone want to let that go up in flames?

But, I remind myself, that’s the meaning of Burning Man. We create to destroy, we plunge ourselves headfirst into impermanence, life’s biggest lesson. And we do so to feel it, to understand it, to remind ourselves.

— Lorax Vancouver

Note from Sarah and Jon: This wasn’t the mosquito man from our story, but we totally saw this guy around, too.

The Human Element

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 13:01:06 -0800

Burning Man has always been to me a place of great spiritual experiences and insights. A place where I connect with the divine in an elemental way. 2012 was my eighth Burning Man and my first without a lover, a dear and very close friend or mind-altering substances.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect but and I felt a bit unanchored. But I had faith. For the first three days I did have fun, go on adventures and explore the many wonders of the playa. Still I was missing the transcendental element that is Burning Man to me.

So on Friday I went out alone into the Playa and sent out a prayer for that experience to come to me and brought myself to a place of openness and willingness.

Through a chain of linked serendipitous events a photographer reminded me of the beauty of a playa sunrise, an art car woke up our neighborhood at 5:50 AM, I felt compelled to ride to the playa where I was going to stay at 6 o’clock facing the man, until I overheard an elderly man say to his wife: “come on, honey, we have to get to the Temple.” I rode as fast as I could to make it in time for a spectacular sunrise at the Temple.

I didn’t plan any of it, I was taken there.

After the sun rose, I walked around the Temple filled with gratitude and reverence. Then this boy, from out of the blue, gives me the warmest hug, says “good morning” and proceeds on his merry way.

That shook me to the core. Things like that don’t happen to me. It took my experience to another level. I realized that an element that had been missing was kind, loving human contact.

I had been looking at things, at nature, but not at people. Not deeply.

I was moved to tears. I felt to blessed.

I sat in the Temple and remembered a meditation from A Course In Miracles where I looked at each and every person in the Temple and with love and gratitude silently said: “God in me salutes God in you.”

It was a transcendental experience, my Burning Man spiritual replenishing.

I’m so grateful to all those people who brought me to that experience.

And especially to that boy, who I now, from reading this blog realize might have been a Temple Guardian.

Namaste to all.

“BURN THE FUCKIN’ TEMPLE !!!”

shabadahabada — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 13:01:00 -0800

The first time I went to the playa, in 2000, was just eight months after my boyfriend killed himself.

That very first time, in 2000, the Temple taught me a valuable and unexpected lesson, one that still makes me laugh and cry equally.

In my camp that year, I met a young guy, a sweet guy, who’d also lost his boyfriend. They lived together in LA, and his boyfriend got up early one morning in their apartment a few months before to make coffee and watch the sun rise.

He took his fresh cup of coffee, walked out onto their balcony to face east, leaned on the railing to savor the moment … and the railing gave way and he fell 3 stories to the parking lot and died.

I don’t remember his guy’s name. I remember we both bonded over this loss that was impossible to speak of honestly, because it was so raw and so fresh and so big.

We each separately went to the Temple and spent our time, added our mementos, cried and howled and grieved, were comforted by strangers.

And we agreed to go together to watch it burn, to be there together because we thought the other understood.

We got there early, spread out our blanket … and, soon, came the dust. In my memory, it was an epic dust storm, though maybe my first time made it seem more so. We huddled together under a cover, hugged each other, and spent the time together—hours—each alone with our thoughts, not saying much.

Finally the night cleared. The fire lighters came. Intoning, dancing, swinging the arcs of flame, observed in silence by what had turned into a huge crowd—mutely bearing witness. We were awed, looking back at all the people, feeling like part of something much bigger, grander, more rich than our own individual stories.

The firelighters left. And then … nothing.

Time passed. A lot of time. The silence was broken by shards of little overheard conversations. Even they trailed off. Nothing happened.

Then from the back of the crowd, a few ragged voices, yelling in almost-unison.

“Burn the TEMPLE, man!”

“BURN THE FUCKIN’ TEMPLE !!!”

He and I looked at each other, shocked, our shared experience of grieving and loss and honoring the dead defiled.

And then …

… we started to laugh.

And we laughed and we laughed until we cried…but not the searing, aching tears of loss, but the hopeless, bizarre, oh-well-I-guess-that’s-life tears of release.

The Temple taught us that day that individual moments count for everything, that you will remember your loss in funny ways in unexpected places, but that if you place everything into one single moment and time and ceremony and ritual of grieving … there will always be some drunken yahoos to inject randomness, because that’s how life works, and that’s the magic act of Karma saying, “Oh, no you don’t, we’ve got something slightly different planned” …

… and it was a wonderful lesson once I could wrap myself around it.

It’s a part of the Temple and Burning Man that I will always treasure: Randomness is its own reward and solace.

I’ve said goodbye to Brian in many ways, many times, at the Temple since then. In 2010, after 10 years, I burned the answering machine tape with his voice on it, and said goodbye more permanently.

But I really think he’d have liked Burning Man. Or at least the idea of it. And that from his grave in the Orthodox Jewish cemetery in that Southern city, he knows we’re all out there, and sees us all, and revels in it all like we do.

He’d hate the dust, and the primitive conditions, but he’d have gotten it all—I think—and even if he didn’t … it’s the best we can do.

And he’d have gotten that for sure.

silly

everythingisablaze — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 13:01:26 -0800

I never went inside, always looked in quietly, every time I was there I felt I was too intoxicated to be able to be respectfully quiet inside.

— Danny

Dear Temple of Transition

everythingisablaze — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 13:01:12 -0800

Dear Temple of Transition [Burning Man 2011] from Ian MacKenzie on Vimeo.

Salvation of the mind

everythingisablaze — Sun, 04 Nov 2012 12:01:00 -0800

My dear sweet boy whom I’ve been married to for the past 14 years an together with for 17. Has battled with inner demons and voices from an abusive childhood of always feeling undeserving of love and acceptance, always feeling depression, always feeling whatever small he had to give would never be good enough.. Was able to heal his mind and soul at burning man. The Temple of Juno assisted me in relaxing his mind and allowing the outpouring of bad memories, in influx of love and acceptance, and the release of depression to be replaced by pure genuine happiness. My boy has not been the same since. I wanted to say thank you to everyone who helped make the temple possible, those who designed it with the lovely benches lining the outter wall. That was a place of solitude that he was able to lay in my lap cry, talk, and attach his hurt to. As the sun rose I could see a definite change in him. A lightness. As the temple burned later that night he felt as though his entire being was freed, he has been genuinely happy ever since. It was a magical place that was built to be shared by so many. I truely am grateful and want to say thank you to all that helped along the journey. You all had a Hand in saving my sweet love! Thanks!

from The Mirror

everythingisablaze — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 13:01:07 -0700

“This spiritual contract allows relationships to act as catalysts for our spiritual growth and evolution. When we enter a relationship we’re forging a spiritual contract with our partner saying, “I’ll be a mirror for you so you can see your divine reflection — all the attributes, light and shadow, that reveal who you are and who you are becoming — if you’ll do the same for me.” As partners act as mirrors for each other, they reveal aspects of each others’ self that were previously hidden from them. The “shadows” of each partner are gradually revealed.” — Arttemis and Krystalle Keszainn

An hour before sunrise, and I’m sitting in The Temple of Juno.

I’m halfway through my shift as Temple Guardian, a volunteer role to glide silently through the halls of grief and offer support to Burners as they leave their offerings. This support could be a hand on their shoulder, a hug, a tissue. Or it could be holding space, a presence, a grounding. Small pushes from a great distance, I was told.

This is my third time serving, and second shift this week. Last year I shot a love letter to the Temple of Transition, the beating heart of Burning Man. I knelt at her feet and wept. Inside the perimeter, I watched her burn in the eyes of others, partly to bear witness, and partly because I couldn’t see her go.

Tonight, this year, the Temple is reborn in a new skin but I feel her familiarity.

Suddenly, a shout from outside and a distraught man barrels into the inner chamber hurling himself on the wooden altar. He crashes to the ground, knocking poems and photographs from their perches. He’s shirtless, scraggly hair, clad in raver pants.

“Voice!” yells another Temple Guardian from across the chamber, calling the nickname for the Guardian shift leads. She rushes over while others join her, including myself. I wanted to call for the Voice but I didn’t. I’m not sure why I didn’t.

The distraught man is carried to the corner and surrounded, gently, by Guardians. They speak softly, but firmly, assuring him everything is fine. He is safe. Wild eyed, he points to the Voice, a meditative fellow in a large white faux-fur coat and screams, “I don’t trust you! Get out of here! Get out of here!” The Voice backs away.

Minutes later, the Black Rock Rangers have arrived and escorted the man to the ambulance. They drive into the dusty night and Burners flow back into the central chamber, like ocean water filling a broken sand castle.

I resume my walking meditation around the Temple. The walls are papered with messages of sorrow: lost friends, lost parents, lost moments. The temperature has dropped precipitously, and my three layers fail to keep the cold at bay. The stars wink overhead, a canopy of portals to a more vibrant universe. Time ceases to trickle and I enter the realm of the eternal.

Sunrise. Brilliant rays crest the horizon, conjuring infinite shadows along the dust.

I spot a woman visibly carrying the weight of the collective grief. She appears in her mid-30’s, brown hair, dressed like a Burner who’s been here before, but perhaps hasn’t been intimate with the Temple. She stumbles from wall to wall, her movements becoming more erratic, drunk on sadness, an onslaught of pain. I follow quietly in the shadows, grounding her from a distance.

I want to go to her. Offer her…what? An embrace? The presence of another human being? But I can’t. I won’t.

I withhold.

The woman emits a cry and flees from the Temple.

— Vision Weaver