But, Burning Man.

A lesson in acceptance and letting go, NOT at Burning Man.

As we prepare for a year-long move to France with my youngest son, my eldest son going to Georgetown, and my stepson going to Northeastern, there has been a bit of a purge from all fronts in the house, boxing-up memories one by one of the pictures, the moments, and the artifacts that prove a childhood well-childhooded. (The bag of Skylanders figurines that they used to play with now sits on the sidewalk because they wouldn’t sell on eBay.) It’s exciting and sad and wonderful and terrifying all at the same time. But most of all, nostalgic. And that one can be tricky.

Nostalgia is a liar, let’s be clear. Those wedding pictures of un-fulfilled promises, those imprints of a life where you swore you were fat now make you say, “Hey, I looked pretty fucking good!” Those things that you held near and dear to your heart that were SO important to you, now depict something that belongs in the Salvation Army pile or the all-out trash. It’s all so…surreal. What you thought “was,” just isn’t anymore.

As I was on the phone with The RealReal haggling over what I deemed valuable enough to others to actually make money off of, I saw my kids hauling out boxes of books and clothes and memorabilia to put out on the curb where it somehow magically disappears over the course of a day. (Brooklyn’s magical like that.) “Hey!”, I yelled, “That sweatshirt is collector’s and has tags on it!, Wait. Are you throwing out your Gameboys with the games??? You’re going to be sorry one day when you get older and want to play that shit again and you’ve just tossed it on the curb!” As you can see, I never forgave my mom for selling my original Atari and games for a total of $10 at one of her garage sales. I told her to sell it mind you, but ten years later I regretted it. Now, back to TheRealReal, “So…you were saying you only consign Chopard and Cartier? ‘Kay…bye.”

I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to be packing and sorting and laughing and crying and panicking and counting the days until we leave. I want to stay in this moment and hug my “babies” and cuddle on the couch and watch Thomas The Train and Bolt on repeat. I want to make them lunch and do puzzles and talk about bugs and birds and why the dog rolls in other animals’ poop. “Mom! Should I keep this?”, my son asks of a Precious Moments Bible his great grandmother gave him when he was born. His absolute ignorance broke Nostalgia’s spell, “Oh my god! Yes. Yes, you should. And check to see if there are any personal notes or $2 dollar bills hidden in anything. Those things are worth a lot of money before 1976 for some reason.”

There was a $2 bill inside, from 2005, so…just worth $2. And that made sense. It makes sense that a $2 bill would be worth $2. It didn’t make sense that my babies were men now with…body hair. Lots and lots of body hair. Their interest in Thomas The Train has been replaced by fake ID’s from China to get into hot clubs to meet hot girls and dancing to “Hot in Herre” by Nelly. Oh wait, that was my nostalgia creeping in there. Let’s replace Nelly with Kendrick Lamar and call it their future nostalgia.

As I was kicking another un-liftable box down the hallway, I saw my two sons seemingly shirking their packing responsibilities by texting on their phones. “What are you doing?”, I asked with a shit-ton of accusation behind it. Colton, my eldest responded, “It’s dad. We are having lunch with him today.” (I’m going with theatrical dialogue below to save time.)

Me: Where is he taking you?
Colton: A steakhouse in midtown.
Me: Well, there goes your afternoon. Why couldn’t he take you to lunch in Brooklyn so it would be easier on you both??
Wesley (my wise-guy): Mom. Why are you surprised? It’s Dad.

Indeed it is. “Dad” puts “Dad” first. “Dad” works in midtown when “Dad” is actually in town which is usually never because “Dad” moved to Miami two years ago. “Dad” has spent exactly one weekend with his sons and taken them out for two dinners, (and now, a lunch), ALLLLL SUUUUUUUUMMMMER. Now, we have arrived at the busiest moment of the season, the pinnacle of planning, the ultimate clusterfuck of moments colliding at once: getting our entire home packed up for renters, getting Colton to his dorm room in D.C., and getting Wesley packed for France, all in the same weekend. There is no room for lunch in midtown. No extra time for fucking-off at an overpriced feast on plates of imminent heart disease and colon cancer. But “Dad” never has had to, or ever will have to, do any of the dirty work. Because dirty work is for people who “Dad” can pay to do it for him. (Like me.)

And they were off. How could I possibly stop them from seeing their “dad” when they get so little time with him? But, in truth, how could I possibly stop an 18-year-old from doing anything at this point? Besides, they needed to have all the moments they can muster in order to cement that nostalgia in their minds for when the time comes to remember all the “good” times.

My stepson came bopping down the stairs and asked where the boys were and I told him that they were with their “dad”. He said, “Is he going with you to take Colton to school?” And I said, “Unfortunately, he can’t make it.” “Oh.”, he said with a twinge of confusion. Then, “Where will he be?”, he asked. I replied, “Burning Man.” My stepson laughed because he thought I was being funny. Now, to his credit, I am usually being funny, but when he saw that I wasn’t being funny he replied, “Are you serious?”, and my response was, “Dead.”

Did you gasp for air at this notion? Did you scream, “Nooooooo! How could a parent miss one of the most important milestones of a kid’s life????” If you didn’t scream that then, why not? Because that’s what my inner voice was screaming after I texted the following to my ex two months ago when I knew this moment was inevitable:

Actual text exchange.

I imagined Jason’s inner monologue as he typed the above: “But, Burning Man. But, the desert. But, the group showers. But, the absolute inability to be able to be gotten ahold of incase of emergencies or have to help in any sort of way shape or form. But, my yearly awakening. But, me. But, I pay for everything so it’s reasonable that I don’t have to be there. But, but, but, but, but…”

This may or may not be my ex at Burning Man.

Which brings me to the head scratching, mind boggling question that has eluded me since I became a middle-aged person: why do fifty-year-olds want go to Burning Man? I have heard about more people my age and older ordering their MadMax garb on Amazon and spending small to large fortunes getting into and to this Lollapalooza-meets-The Apocolypse-meets-Dune-fest and I just don’t get it. I might be okay with not showering every single day, but having three inches of mud between my ass crack is not my idea of “partying.” So, I turned to Google to investigate the why’s of this “dad’s” decision to trade the monumental moment of dropping his son off at school for the first time in exchange for a desert commune full of strangers.

To be fair, Google shows a LOT of hot models wearing bikinis under fur coats standing next to weird art (but art is subjective) and “fleshlights” which are flashlights made from sex toys. Other Google-driven depictions show ayahuasca tents and 40 person industrial showers and drugs and orgies and dancing and sandstorms and billionaires and people who took out HELOC’s on their homes to buy tickets and families with kids and even a section for sober people. (AA is representing. Mad respect.) Overall it’s a melange of humans sporting fur-trimmed, steam-punk fashion who are looking to become someone else (or even a unicorn) for a week with the promise of a version of enlightenment. The irony here is that you don’t even have to leave the comfort of your own home to do that because enlightenment is a journey within. Duh.

But the more I dug, the more Nostalgia kept knocking on the door of the twenty-four-year-old version of me who heard about Burning Man for the first time from a couple of neighbors while living in New Hampshire. It was intriguing. Dare I say, I wanted to go once in my life just to experience riding a zip line naked and having zero inhibitions about any societal expectations. A “utopia” operating on a barter system of pure creativity that says “yes” to life in every way. But then, *poof*, I was thirty, and then forty and now I have no desire to subject myself to the harsh winds of the desert with smelly people and no place to poop.

This also may or may not be my ex at Burning Man.

But, enlightenment. The Beatles knew what was up: “love is all you need.” Love is the highway to enlightenment. It stares us in the face every single day through the eyes of the people we are closest to. And every single day we have the choice to look back into those eyes with our own love. The whole universe resides there. In that moment. It’s why we are here. There is no searching or pretending or grabbing for it through man-made means. It just is. There for the taking.

So, when Tor and I drove Colton down to Georgetown last weekend, we were gifted the experience of that symbiotic relationship and the beautiful letting go of the expectations that hinder the flow of love. Just being there for him and running to Target for last-minute essentials and having lunch in the dining hall in order to imbibe a mediocre meal with a side of those swift moments of eternity in my son’s eyes, was enough. Seeing him walk with ease and confidence into his new surroundings, ready for the next chapter was enough. It was more than enough. It was All.

I witnessed the poetic prose culled by a stepfather to his stepson incite the most beautiful father/son moment I have ever had the privilege of seeing on-screen or off. I saw the ocean, the sun, the moon, the stars, the galaxies and even God herself in the hug that followed which otherwise may not have happened if “Dad” had been there.

When they pulled-away from that burst of eternity, Colton said: “You know…I was feeling sad that “Dad” didn’t come. But then I realized, I have you, Tor. You are here. And then I wasn’t sad anymore. And I got sad at the fact that I wished my father would have given me a watch for my graduation gift. But, I bought one for myself that I really love. I can be my own dad.”

That statement would have made me sad for my son but in truth, he’s right. We all have been “wronged” in some way by our parents, no? We all have to fill the gaps for the things that we didn’t get. It’s why therapy exists. So, yes, my little sage of love and light, you are correct. You can be your own dad. I can be my own mom. We all can, and must, be our own healers.

But if you didn’t heal thyself, and you find yourself sorting through all of your old shit because you have to literally and metaphorically clean your house and the “good” memories don’t look so good anymore, just remember…Nostalgia is a liar. And if healing thyself feels too daunting or is taking too long or becomes too much work there’s always…

…Burning Man.

In Laughter,

LStL