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This year will be my sixth Burn in the Nevada desert.
I’ve been going five out of the last seven years, one year being “Rogue Burn,” the unofficial post-COVID-19 gathering.
Only once did I consciously manage to stay away from our yearly pilgrimage to the Black Rock Desert and one year was simply impossible due to COVID-19 restrictions.
Burning Man is hard. It’s hot. It’s a lot of work. It imposes excessive demands, eating into your resources monetarily, time-wise, and energetically—especially when coming from overseas, as I do.
This makes any reasonable person question: Why, exactly, does one keep going back?
I’ll never forget our first year. We arrived on the Burner Express bus—wide-eyed newcomers in the dust, or as the seasoned veterans affectionately call them, “Burgins” (Burner Virgins). At the entrance gate, first-timers are invited to take part in an initiation ritual: rolling in the dust, embracing the element that will cling to you—body, clothes, and soul—for the next week. One art installation put it perfectly: “I have dust in curious places.” People simply declare, “You can’t escape the dust.”
The Burner Express dropped us at the depot, where we transferred to a satellite bus that carried us deeper into the city. Laden with enormous backpacks and bags, we stepped out into our “neighborhood” and tried to make sense of the unique address system—streets mapped like the face of a clock. As we were looking for our camp, a future neighbor spotted us, raised a hand-painted sign, and called out with a warm grin: “Welcome Home.” I took it half as a joke, chuckled, and kept walking—little knowing just how real that welcome would become.
A Utopia in the Dust: The Irresistible Promise
We have all heard it before: Burning Man is far more than just a festival. It’s a social utopia in the desert, the largest blank canvas for artistic expression, a city that rebuilds itself from scratch year after year, only to vanish again. It’s a melting pot of countless cultures, ideas, and personalities. Yes, it’s wild, overwhelming, and constantly pushes you to your limits. It’s a permanent state of overwhelm that, paradoxically, leads to profound growth for many.
This overwhelm can hit you immediately. It might be the visual overload on your first evening stroll or bike ride onto the playa at night, when thousands of lights sparkle like a giant adventure park, stretching to the horizon. It could be the sheer heat during the day, or even just the stress of planning—how do you ensure you forget nothing when there’s nothing to buy there?
Yet, amidst the heat, the dust, and the countless challenges, most discover something deeply profound—a wellspring of inspiration or even a spiritual rebirth. I believe that potential comes from the journey each of us must take just to get here. And isn’t that true for life itself? The harder we work for something, the sweeter the reward.
Burning Man offers countless doorways to that potentially life-changing spark: the breathtaking art, the solemn beauty of the Temple, workshops that explore the mind and body, or a fleeting, serendipitous encounter in the far reaches of Deep Playa near the trash fence.
However you choose to live your week, one thing is certain—it will be anything but ordinary. You will be challenged, and in those challenges, you will grow.
Personally, without Burning Man, I would not be the same person I am today. Its system of principles is the closest thing to the ideal for how I envision a community. These 10 Principles—Radical Inclusion, Gifting, Decommodification, Communal Effort, Civic Responsibility, Participation, Immediacy, Leave No Trace, Radical Self-Expression and Radical Self-Reliance—are not just rules, but a living philosophy that forms the core of the experience. It’s a space where you can feel safe to fully express yourself, connect with like-minded or very different people, and create inclusive experiences—things that often fall short in our polarized world.
Why Burning Man is So Relevant Right Now
I also return because I feel a lot of things are shifting at the moment—globally, but also within the Burning Man community itself.
Especially in these unsettled and uncertain times, Burning Man serves as a crucial place to live this bespoke utopia. To test and prove that many things can be done completely differently from how the “default world” works at the moment.
If we learn and live at least some of the principles and lessons there, we can strive to carry this spirit outward, hopefully creating a positive impact on the “default world.”
For any Burner, participation becomes increasingly important over the years. In your first year, you’re thrown into this wild parallel universe, mostly awestruck, trying to experience as much as you can. Year by year, that’s still the case, but there is also a certain responsibility that grows, because at Burning Man nothing happens if no one does it. Only the basic infrastructure is set up by the organization. The rest is to be created and curated by the participants—by you and me. And this is something that I wish for all of us in our everyday lives. Along the lines of what John F. Kennedy said in his inaugural speech: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” Replace “country” with “world” and this would be an aspiring thing, would it not?
It might seem like a small thing, but I believe what all of us should focus on as a start is being present and being kind. Kinder than usual. Practicing to build bridges instead of digging trenches. This might be easier within the bubble that is Burning Man, but that’s precisely the practice.
The “default world” could certainly use more of the Burning Man spirit: more engagement, more empathy, more creativity, and creative problem-solving, and less passivity.
I hope for Burners to be more present and to raise their voices when needed. Because the magic we create together there can and should be an inspiration for the world beyond the playa.
When a Desert Feels like Coming Home
Over the years, that offhand “Welcome Home” greeting became something I truly felt deep in my bones. What began as a playful thing evolved into a sensation I now anticipate with a kind of homesickness. The Black Rock Desert, the Burning Man culture, and the ephemeral city have all woven themselves into my sense of belonging. And, as with any true home, that feeling carries a responsibility—to care for it, to contribute to it, and to honor the people who make it real.
This year, when I return to the playa, I will paint a sign. It will say: “Welcome Home.”
And if I spot you in the dust—wide-eyed, disoriented, maybe even a little overwhelmed—I’ll hold it high and show it to you, just as someone once did for me.
P.S. Burning Man culture lives far beyond Nevada, in gatherings and regional events around the world. I know that traveling long distances to attend a festival is a personal choice—not one everyone supports—and I respect that completely.
~
author: Kilian Schiller
Image: Author's Own
Editor: Lisa Erickson
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