Photo: Epicurrence via Unsplash
Maya Angelou once said “I don’t trust people who don’t love themselves, but say I love you.”
My first year and a half in San Francisco was full of ups and downs.
Mostly, I figured it out as I went along. I made a point to go to mixers and meetups, retreats and happy hours, connecting wherever and whenever I could.
I went inward, too.
I worked with a meditation leader, found a life coach and spoke regularly with a philosophical counselor.
The harder the shit hits the fan the further it gets flung.
Besides what’s missing someone really, other than longing for reflections of the interesting bits about yourself?
Cut to a year later. I’m boarding a plane traveling from Chicago to San Francisco in completion of a week-long trip to the east coast.
I caught myself staring into space and pulled my phone from my pocket to give myself something to do.
Tap tap tap. Missives to friends in L.A.
“Is everyone there going to Burning Man, too? Is this something we do now?”
The first reply:
“It’s become so cool to go to it, that it’s now cool NOT to go to it. The whole thing is too much of an ordeal. I have a business to run and you’re telling me to plan outfits?! Yeah I am fine, see you when you get back buddy!”
The second reply, simply: “no.”
I knew it wasn’t like me to even for a moment consider it.
Still, the city had gotten to me.
It was a result of hanging out in communes where the most hardcore of it’s inhabitants rigorously white-boarded their lives.
It was in making poly-amorous friends who rode unicycles wearing trousers that lit with tiny LED lights running up and down the seams.
It was attending parties with themes like metamorphosis where young techies would freedom-dance in circles, waving their arms in unison to the sound of a tribal drum, knotting their limbs together in what they confidently proclaimed to be a “chrysalis.”
After about a year of living in San Francisco I was ready for it. A gradual yet steady, descent into the unknown.
(part 1 of 2)