Defaulting on the "Default World"

"That's just the way it is." I've heard this many times, mainly when the narrator has no answer to that pesky question, "Why?" When I hear this, I don't stop inquiring. Rather, my inquiry takes on new dimension. I hear the angels calling. The skies open and the air is fresher than it was a moment before.

Because when I hear resignation, when we reach a limit in our understanding, when there is no other option apparent, for me there's an invitation, an opening to look outside the box, if you will, of the taken-for-granted "default" world. I get excited.

If we can agree that the "world as we know it" is just one possibility, then we can look beyond the way things are now to see what could be. It's a ticket for a ride on the luck dragon.

Imagination is exploration, to which we bring all that we are and all that we hope. It also helps to have like-minded friends to journey with.

A few weeks ago, I gathered with fellow explorers in the desert of northwest Nevada, a state I normally avoid on principle, for an annual celebration of original thought, risk-taking and freedom of expression known as Burning Man.

If you're not familiar with Burning Man, it's an annual gathering of artists and free spirits that transforms a dry lake bed in Nevada into Black Rock City for eight days each August.

It is almost universally agreed that Burning Man can't be explained, defies description and must be experienced first hand. I tend to agree, as much as I agree with anything. Burning Man happens outside the box of the default world. By "default" I mean the world as it occurs to us the rest of the time, the world you see on TV and walk about in when you step outside your door, probably the same world you take for granted inside your home and inside your own head. The "real" world. It's the world we all agree on.

And then, there's Burning Man: 50,000 people camping out for 8 days in a dust storm, in tents, in 100 degree heat, without water, power, internet, deodorant, TV or newspapers. Plagued by "playa hair" and "playa feet," lining up for outhouses. Sounds like something that sheriff in Arizona would design as a punishment for law-breakers. But these people paid dearly for the privilege, and you can see by the smiles on their faces that they're getting their money's worth.

And what are they getting? In the most basic and rudimentary sense, they are getting a much-needed break from the default world. In fact, the more inconsistent things on the playa are with the "real" world, the better burners like it.

There are funny clothes, or no clothes, upside-down flags and countless ways to play. There is music and fire art, and art cars and a party that doesn't stop until people drop. But more-importantly, there's no money: no wampum, no bartering, no exchanges of any kind. There is no profit on the playa. There is no scarcity on the playa. No hunger. No thirst.

But there is giving, and there is sharing. And there is abundance.
And it is in the "Gift Economy" that Burning Man truly departs from the "real" world and strikes out into new territory.

Burners take gifting seriously. They plan for it, wondering not what will I get at Burning Man, but rather what will I give? The best gifts are personal and consist of giving yourself to others, although alcohol and food are highly prized.

I give Reiki treatments. After your treatment, I help you select a stone from my bowl of stones, and then I wire wrap it and make you a necklace. Some of my camp mates give foot baths, deep-tissue massage, morning prayers and giggle therapy. People come to our camp for healing and tender loving care. We have it and we give it. At night, we dress in our playa finery and go out on the town, the temporary town that is Burning Man.

Just down the street from our camp is one of our favorite bars. Free bars are one of the most popular types of camps on the playa. We drink, we dance, we hug the bartender and we wander out onto the playa. We stop at the quesadilla stand. We hop on the bus. It's how we have always dreamed a bus should be, plush with disco lights and loud music. We dance on the bus.

We wander through Black Rock City, getting lost on purpose, in the lights and the music and the art. Nobody cares what time it is. Nobody carries a wallet, money, I.D. or keys. We carry goggles and water and some t.p. and we light ourselves up with glow and LEDs. Sometime or other, we sleep some.

And at the end, we pack up our dusty belongings, our dish water, our shower water, our trash and we go back to the default world. And at that moment, as we line up eight across to leave the playa, we begin to count the days until the next burn, until we can come home again.

For us, for burners new and old, for burners who have never been to the playa, for all those who can't take "that's just the way it is" for an answer, the box is too small and one way or another, we will find a way out.

But what about the other 357 days of the year. Our default world is broken. We see this clearly as we return home from Burning Man. What is to be our gift to this world? Once our eyes are open, we have a duty I think, to keep them open, to share what we see and to offer whatever gifts we may contrive for the betterment of all.

Most of all, I think it's our job to ask the question "What if?" What if we took profit out of the economic equation? What if we chose our jobs, rather than being chosen for them? What if we stopped assuming there isn't enough to go around, and just tried acting as if there is plenty for everyone?

"Impossible!" shouts the default voice inside your head. I'm just saying, "what if?"