Who designs a community?

Let the "woo-woo" in

Today’s accompanying tune: “Space Oddity” by David Bowie

I pulled into the dirt driveway of Sacred Sands with the sun high, the heat of the early summer baking the hills through which I drove. The golden glow of the lowering sun was still a few hours off; it was stubbornly remaining high, asserting its dominance. A reminder that, in a few short weeks, there would be no escape, no respite, from its incessant glare. But the cacti were loving it, celebrating with a spray of long-dormant displays of green, pink, yellow. So who was I to complain? I, too, was eager to bask in its warmth for now, the endlessly still days of the summer heat still enough of a mirage on the horizon as to be ignored, almost forgotten. I reveled in it as I stepped outside and sat with the warmth at my back. Soon, I wouldn’t last very long in the heat. But for now, it was glorious, the desert at its prime.

The desert attracts a certain type of person. Someone who, for whatever reason, is fine leaving the conveniences of a city, of suburbia, and high-tailing it to the land of open spaces dotted only with creosote and the occasional rattlesnake. They are artists of all pursuits — writers, musicians, painters, mixed metal sculptors. They are athletes — rock climbers, hikers, ultramarathon runners. They are those whose souls are warm to the touch, having basked in the glow of the desert sun just long enough to soak up some of its magic. And magic it has, in spades. Those that call this place home, are called to call this place home, feel it, sense it, become it. Their minds as open as their souls, willing the magic to find them and settle, so delicately, among the trappings of ordinary life. They could be called hippies, or woo-woo, or alternative, or any number of other ways people like to distinguish themselves from others. But more than anything, they have an openness to new experiences, new ideas, new people, and new places; that commonality brings us here, draws us to such a place, the openness of the landscape mimicking that which resides inside of some people. That openness breeds something unique, something special, something truly interesting, at its core. If you are lucky enough to know it, you are lucky enough to feel its magic.

Desert residents are, with their openness, often known for their deviations from a common path, whether it be career or family or religion. This isn’t to say everyone living in the desert adheres to the uncommon, but I have found its presence here more often than in any other place that I’ve lived. When I first moved out, several friends quipped that it would be only a matter of time until I started collecting crystals, going to sound baths, vibing on the “energy” of the place. And, to be honest, they weren’t at all wrong. In the openness of the desert, the wide, stretching landscapes in which I live, I’ve found an openness and curiosity in myself that I’m not sure would be possible anywhere else. And instead of being met with a condescending tone or judgement from my peers scattered across the country, I, more often than not, am met with openness right back from my neighbors.

This is how I found myself at Sacred Sands a few weeks back. The half-circle of woven blankets set up in the main room was mostly full when I arrived, characteristically just on time and not a minute more, not a minute less. I poured myself a glass of hibiscus tea and wandered over to an empty place in the circle, the sun warming my back while the glass warmed my hands. Instead of oppressive, the heat was comfortable, gentle, welcomed. I was there for a workshop on Human Design hosted by Dana Waldie, owner of Methods & Rituals and skincare magician, and Brit Capri, a local coach specializing in yoga, breath work, and human design. Human Design is a bit of a new age “self-understanding” system that pulls from other, older systems such as astrology, Kabbalah, Myers-Briggs, I Ching, and quantum physics. The room was full — neighbors I hadn’t yet met had eagerly decided to spend the evening learning something new that other folks may have dismissed. We listened, we learned, we asked questions. And, quietly, slowly, the beginnings of a community took shape.

I’ve tried, with varied success, to become part of a community, any community, since moving to the desert. It’s hard, even with all the openness. I have taken pottery classes and woken early to climb before the heat of the day and joined book clubs and gone so far outside my comfort zone that I can barely see its edges, and still, I’ve found it difficult to make anything stick. I see others’ magic, I see what drew them here in the first place, and want to shout that I, too, am here. I, too, can feel it yet can’t explain it. I want to share in all that remains unexplained with someone who doesn’t require an explanation. I want to be open and vulnerable and messy because that’s what community is built on. And I know it’s here, because I saw it in Sacred Sands. I saw the openness, the lack of judgement, the lure of knowing a bit more about something new that brought everyone there, out on a school night.

There’s a discomfort inherent in putting yourself, myself, all of our selves, out there. Out in the world for others to see and hear and judge. Out in the vastness of the internet where people comment and scold and present opinion as fact. Openness is freeing — it is also terrifying and vulnerable. To open yourself is to expose the softest parts of yourself, the most human parts that are alive in all of us, to the harshness of the world. But the people I’ve met — the people in real life and not those confined to the comments sections online — have been imbued with the desert’s magic, have proven the path safe, albeit challenging. The more we learn about ourselves, the more we comfortable we become. Understanding only begets more understanding. Openness to yourself, to truly know about yourself through any of the modes that speak to you, has a settling effect that others can feel, can sense, will gravitate towards. Knowing my own limitations, my shortcomings, has only made it that much easier to live with and work with them in a way that builds strength. I’m a stronger runner because I know my body despises running uphill, and so I work harder to get better at it. I’m a stronger friend because I know I’m not always able to give someone the entirety of my attention, so I work on being consciously present when we’re together. I’m terrible at time management and lose track of it often, so I’ve built a system of alarms and reminders throughout the day to ensure I am not inconveniencing someone else due to my inability to adhere to the clock.

If we can accept ourselves, in all our messy vulnerability, then maybe we can accept others, with all their imperfections and delightful humanness. We can build a community, make connection less elusive, embrace the magic and the wonder and all that inspires joy. Even if it means going out on a school night to learn something some people might describe as hippie, woo-woo, alternative. Because there is no better feeling — nothing better in the world — than feeling the warmth on your back on an early summer evening, before the heat has sunken in and made everything hard.

Here’s to trying something new, something out there, in the name of openness.

- Megan