It's definitely a transformative experience. I guess it's the kind of thing that people get out of hallucinogens: for a little while you get to step outside of the context whose cues shape how you behave and think.
Which I'm worried may make no sense, so let me be more specific. One way to explain it: at work, you're work you. At home, you're family you. In each context, you've developed a set of behaviors and mental habits. What happens if you put those all down? Who are you now?
I happened to go on a 70-mile wilderness hike on the Pacific Crest Trail the week before going to Burning Man 1997. The experiences were wildly different: one was peace and nature and quiet; the other was a beautifully insane party filled with extraordinary art. But both had similar effects on me. I got to step outside myself and be a part of something extraordinary. I couldn't rely on my old ways of interpreting people; I had to see them anew.
I still remember flying back to Chicago on a red eye. I got into Midway airport, which at the time had all the charm of a poorly maintained bus station, and hopped on the L slightly before dawn. It was filled with sleepy commuters, all in that hazy, slightly vulnerable state we're in before we've really woken up. And I was filled with a deep love for humanity, for each one of those beautiful dreamers going about their lives. I could have hugged them.
Of course, those transformations fade. When we come back to old places, we slip back into our old selves. But not entirely. Some of the magic sticks with us.
Which I'm worried may make no sense, so let me be more specific. One way to explain it: at work, you're work you. At home, you're family you. In each context, you've developed a set of behaviors and mental habits. What happens if you put those all down? Who are you now?
I happened to go on a 70-mile wilderness hike on the Pacific Crest Trail the week before going to Burning Man 1997. The experiences were wildly different: one was peace and nature and quiet; the other was a beautifully insane party filled with extraordinary art. But both had similar effects on me. I got to step outside myself and be a part of something extraordinary. I couldn't rely on my old ways of interpreting people; I had to see them anew.
I still remember flying back to Chicago on a red eye. I got into Midway airport, which at the time had all the charm of a poorly maintained bus station, and hopped on the L slightly before dawn. It was filled with sleepy commuters, all in that hazy, slightly vulnerable state we're in before we've really woken up. And I was filled with a deep love for humanity, for each one of those beautiful dreamers going about their lives. I could have hugged them.
Of course, those transformations fade. When we come back to old places, we slip back into our old selves. But not entirely. Some of the magic sticks with us.