21 days until I leave for Black Rock City. Burning Man. My second time. GYST! (Get Your Shit Together). As I was walking this morning, I was remembering how I left Burning Man last year.
5am. Freezing cold, pitch black dark, on the desert floor. I slept on the Pretty Pickle Camp community couch, since all my gear was packed up. Got dressed, grabbed my roller suitcase and my one bag of trash and one bag of recycling. I had to walk to the Burner Express bus stop, and, heaven only knew how long it would take me to get there.
Off I go. In the direction of the bus stop. Except, it’s hard to navigate. Half the city has left. Landmarks are gone. Even the street signs are gone; stolen as souvenirs from Burning Man. I navigate by porta pottie banks and original, numbered city markers.
I walk. And walk. And haul my beat up roller bag behind me. Checking the time, I realize 30 minutes have already passed. I check my location. Crap. crap. crap. I might not make it on time for the 8am bus. I start to tear up, regain composure, and figure I just have to keep moving.
I hear voices, so I unwittingly navigate toward them, figuring they must know where they’re going. I end up walking into a camp. Oops. Two guys leave in a pick up truck, and two more guys are standing around talking. I pause, and try to figure out where I’m at, and where to go next.
“Excuse me, miss…do you need help?”
I pause and remember that I’m at Black Rock City. These are my people. “Yes, actually, I do!”
I explain that I’m trying to get to the bus stop. They both gasp and tell me how far it is. And then, the older gentleman offers to get his art car and give me a ride. I worry about imposing. It’s 5:30am. And I know I need his help.
He pulls up a wonderful fish and sea themed blue convertible art car. He puts my bag and trash and recycling in the back seat, and asks me to hop in and over the door – it doesn’t work.
As we ride, slowly, due to playa regulations, he tells me about his wife and his three daughters. He shows me the picture on the dashboard. He explains that he got the car for the family. And, that art cars are for the citizens of Black Rock City. He could think of no better use than to help me reach my destination on time and in one less frazzled piece.
We pull up. He pulls my gear out, and I start to cry again. He gives me a huge hug and thanks me for the opportunity to help. Beeps his horn, and drives off into the sunrise.
Move in the direction you want to go. Do not worry about how you’re going to get there. Faith, trust, and the universe will provide. Your art car will come get you. Just, get, moving.