funambulist
Still recuperating from Burning Man, sitting around naked and mildly sweaty in my disastrous apartment bolstered by They Might Be Giants and a bag of Double Chocolate Milanos. I didn't have a chance to put things in order before I left, other than scrubbing the tub and making sure nothing in the fridge was going to go off while I was gone, and I've clearly got my work cut out for me here. Like, I really need a bed. That's kind of a priority. I need to do laundry in a major way, get the alkali dust out of everything. Go through the three large boxes of papers and receipts. Get back on the treadmill of finding people to write for, and then writing for them.
As Zen practitioner Jack Kornfeld titled his book, after the ecstasy, the laundry.
I have been thinking a lot about generosity, lately. It was really the theme for Burning Man for me this year--not that silly Vault of Heaven thing Larry Harvey proposed. But then how do you decorate an art car or a theme camp to reflect such an intangible? It began when Snufkina, determined that I go even if I couldn't afford it, pulled together some Mystery Benefactors to chip in for my ticket--and then made sure I would be up to my ears in dried fruit and turkey jerky once we hit the playa. It continued with all the people I saw once we were there, both strangers and previous acquaintances.
The seven-year-old boy who played Jedi versus Sith me for hours (and you can probably guess who I was; have you noticed that children don't like playing villians? You have to get a little older before that starts to seem like fun). The stiltwalker who, after I had passed him up some cheese and crackers and wiped his sweaty brow with a Wet Nap from my endless collection, gave me a lovely pair of crocheted white foot thongs--without even being aware that I was a dancer, and thus more inclined to wear such things. The girl in pink fake eyelashes and matching chaps who shared some cool cut melon with me at the hottest part of a day. The exceptionally hunky man who taught me the basics of funambulism on a hemp slack-rope tied between two pillars in the Cafe, one of my hands resting on his exceptionally beautiful shoulder. All the people who affirmed in their various ways some of the things I don't always believe about myself. The people who played with me. Burning Man is a laboratory for the idea of a gift economy, and that manifests in dozens of subtle ways beyond whether we give stranger drinks when they come to our camp, or give away things we've made with the Man and the year printed on them.
The deal is, now I need to find a way to continue manifesting that energy in the so-called real world outside Black Rock City. Even when it is not easy. Even when it would be easier to curl back up into the dessicated, fearful, stiff-muscled ball I so often feel I am.
Because generosity requires bravery. The two things are inextricably linked in ways I did not see before. You have to let go of your fear--apparently, if the comment cards from one of the installations are any indicator, a huge concern for people--to extend yourself to other people. Often, it seems to me, generous people are perceived by others as being naive or perhaps not too bright. But I don't think that's it at all. They are, for some reason, either less fearful--or they have learned how to manage their fear. Which bespeaks intelligence to me.
