I didn’t get to see the man or the temple burn. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to a lot of the friends I met in the Black Rock Desert who, for four days, turned my life upside down. I had to leave early.

A few days prior, as I walked on the sand in Northern Nevada looking to set up camp at my first-ever Burning Man festival, I was filled with trepidation. I was nervous, I had packed too many of the wrong things. My hockey bag was splitting at the seams but I had forgotten to pack a plate and cup to eat and drink.

For me, Burning Man was the place I always thought should exist but never really believed in and only recently found.

I could have tried drugs or gotten drunk and out of hand, but the environment was as much stimulation as I could handle. I brought a 26 of spiced rum and a party pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade but drank none of it. I didn’t want to waste time when I could hear the clock ticking on my time at the festival.

The playa, or desert, was filled with abstract objects — artworks, vehicles — created by the imaginations of thousands. One huge metal steampunk octopus on wheels spit fire at us from each of its flailing disjointed tentacles. We danced to Heart Deco, a touring community of artists and musicians who perform using their double-decker vehicle, in the glow of red LED lights while the moon slowly filled out each passing night. These were just two of hundreds of projects all funded and built independently by the Burning Man community.

Saskatoon put together an effigy, as did many other cities. Ours was a bison accompanied with art panels painted by the community. On the night of Aug. 30, the effigies burnt down to embers and I rode back to camp to pack up.

Burning Man is sentimental. It fuses inspiration with silliness. It’s a place where you’re not allowed to be alone. Radical inclusion, the idea that everyone is welcome, is the first of the festival’s 10 principles and participants are encouraged to express themselves and allow others to do the same.

One man, sitting at the corner of his camp site, yelled compliments at every passing stranger. Across from him was what looked at first to be a normal telephone booth. I picked up the phone and a female answered.

The voice on the other end introduced herself, God. She told me, “Impermanence is everything.”

We live life looking for a steady job, or the love of our lives, a friendship that will last decades or a house built on a platform sturdy enough to survive Earth’s natural disasters. We want families, we want to be surrounded by people who love us, we want to feel safe but none of this lasts. Sooner or later everything has an expiration date.

I’ve spent a lot of time challenging this or holding onto things from the past and refusing to let them fade out gracefully. This won’t be an easy habit to break but reliving the past has weighed me down.

Burning Man’s theme this year was Fertility 2.0. which shouldn’t necessarily be defined as fertility of the body and reproduction, but rather as cultivating fertile ground to change ourselves.

One of the main attractions is the temple “Juno,” where patrons come to leave behind dark memories or say goodbye to lost loved ones. Juno is intricately fashioned from remarkably detailed wood panels. The solemn emotion and sadness present in the building is staggering. It feels as if the walls will enclose you if you let them.

The festival was the first place I tasted a pickle martini, drove an art car, danced in the sand and held complete strangers.

So yes, Burning Man is new age. There are hippies and drugs, art cars made of legos, half sunken pirate ships in the sand, sex workshops, nudists, jackasses that will ash a cigarette on your foot and two seconds later ask, “What’s your problem?”

There are people who want to hear your story or tell you theirs.

For me, Burning Man was the place I always thought should exist but never really believed in and only recently found.

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Illustration: Jenna Mann