There are times, like now, when I feel so disconnected, so strapped and embittered by hollow and mundane circumstances weighing me down, utterly empty of the fire of passionate experience. Stewing at ninety eight degrees Fahrenheit, just enough lackluster warmth to maintain the core body temperature of quiet desperation, I’ve all but forgotten what it’s like to burn bright. I know this exile is temporary, that it will pass.

But what a stark contrast between now and the memory of that momentary transcendence three years ago when, on my last day at Burning Man, I had finally found the frog ponds after half a day spent blindly roaming the desert hills on my bike a few miles outside the confines of Black Rock City. It was nearing dusk and I was completely exhausted, half dehydrated from hours out in the harsh Nevada sun. There was a couple there, a man and woman, swimming naked. I peeled off my clothes and dove in. A moment later the woman climbed out and grabbed a couple of beers from a small cooler. She asked me if I wanted one and over that small gesture we started a conversation. After awhile, as the sun was sinking low on the western horizon and a three quarter moon was rising in the east, the couple got out and headed off toward the other pond where they could be more intimate.

Alone, I stretched out in the water floating on my back and watched the last embers of the sun sink into the desert. As I lay suspended in that radiant, moon shimmering water, so distant from the cacophonous pageantry of the festival I’d left behind, surrounded by the burgeoning darkness and listening to the frogs singing in the twilight, a profound peace settled over me. Tears welled in my eyes and I remember speaking the words aloud, “keep this, remember it, take it with you.”