I think that there is the great misconception of burning man as a giant drug induced orgy. I mean, don’t get wrong there is a presence of both at the burn, but as you read this someone in your hometown is getting high or getting fucked; neither of which is a bad thing. The party aspect of burning man is one of the elements, but alone it could not stand. On my first post talking about the enigmatic shift I have been feeling since the burn, I talk about how the most amazing thing for me was the people.

On one particular morning of the burn I woke up in a foul mood. I was feeling uneasy for a multitude of reasons and just wanted to move and get away from my yurt (which is basically a fancy Styrofoam tent). Jess and I decided to go on a mission to ease the anxiety, and while doing so I stumbled upon an acquaintance from New York City. As my friend and I were catching up I began opening up about being sick, about the entire mess that was the year before. I noticed in our convo that I have been holding back discussing cancer since treatment. I couldn’t even give a reason, other than I simply didn’t want to. That’s not good, not good at all; especially for me someone who has always allowed themselves to be so open and vulnerable.

After this I decided to venture solo and ride my bike aimlessly through the camp grounds. I ended up at a creative writing workshop and in a group of about 25 people I explained why I was there: since treatment ended I haven’t been able to write. I have struggled with facing the brutal experience and I was tired of speaking about cancer. My confession was greeted with caring eyes and people thanking me for being candid. It was time to open that box and let some of the pain out. We sat and wrote for a bit and this is what came out of me:

I woke up this morning and for the first time since the burn I felt alone. I peered at my friends and the man who held me close, but my heart felt cold. I packed my bag and looked for something sheer; I needed to be anywhere, anywhere but here. I loaded my heavy heart on to my creaky bike and sought a place where my mind could feel light. As I began my journey I found myself face to face with a new friend, where involuntarily I began to tell my story from – beginning to end. He looked in my eyes and held my hand, empathizing not only as a brother, but also as a gay man. My voice cracked as I explained my new insecurities, for I have been feeling unsure since I lost my testicle to disease. I have been struggling with my beauty and what it means to feel it; I have been struggling with meditation because of how I fear it. I have been feeling broken because of my foggy brain, and feeling as though my body has been tainted. I have been procrastinating dealing with my negative emotions; closing the windows of my soul, which once flowed freely open. I have been hard on myself, disallowing time to heal, and I have been quiet about my experiences because of the negative things they make me feel. So I talked, talked until I cried – then he brought some peace by looking into my watery eyes. His powerful words made me feel safe, and the reassurance of the journey reminded me I’m just in the right place. Then the moment came where I had to ride away; no plan, no action just more stepping and truths I needed to say.

I felt compelled to share this with the group, so I did. It felt right, and I needed to let it out. I needed to let it breathe. I didn’t anticipate the reaction that I had gotten; glassy eyes and warm smiles on the group, loudly applauding singing my praises – and not for the quality of work, but more so for the breadth of emotion and willingness to be so raw. I did not realize how impactful my little bit of prose was going to be.

Since only a few people were sharing what they wrote it was easy to patiently sit and eagerly listen to whomever was next, but then something really unexpected happened. A fellow burner, an unassuming middle aged man, walked over to me and handed me a folded piece of paper with my name on it (spelled Stevey Lo). I opened it and it read:

This is the very threshold of revelation. Sometimes.

Deep inside you, there’s a part of you, the most inner part, entirely free of disease. I can see that

I mean, kill me. I didn’t stand a chance. Immediately I burst into tears and ugly cried. I am talking Claire Danes- Emmy award winning ugly cry. As we embraced and cried fellow members of the group sobbed with us. He looked at me and said ‘For me, this is Burning Man’

I don’t know if Theo was going through a cancer related issue, or if he was just moved by my words, but I knew that I did something right by sharing. I haven’t felt the same since that moment. I haven’t felt the weight or fear that I used to feel. Maybe it just needed to breathe, maybe I just needed to mourn, or maybe I just needed to be honest that cancer has really fucked with my head. I am not done dealing with the trauma but I see now it’s okay; it is all a part of the adventure.

Namaste.