Navigating the Shadows of Human Connection, Disconnection, and Belonging
(Los Angeles, 2024, not in the desert or eastern sierra, summer solstice and full strawberry moon)
In usually quiet places nestled beneath the embracing glow of the full moon, there existed a gathering—a ritual under the stars that once anchored my sense of belonging. It helped me make sense of the world, and it seemed to me to really help me. I used to cherish these nights, still hearing music from all those years ago where laughter echoed and bonds were forged in the gentle glow of lunar light. It felt like home, a sanctuary where we celebrated each other, the sky, the earth, everything.
But then came the season of tumult, when torrents of discord rippled through the familiar circle. The bringer of terrible news, I was branded the cause of chaos, when I simply surfaced a harsh reality.
One fateful day, I found myself on the outskirts, peering into a world I once thought was more my home than any dwelling I ever lived. It was a place I thought could never be tarnished and only polished: the dancefloor.
The implicit invitation, once freely given to those interested, clever, and lucky enough to find it, was taken back by one voice, leaving me adrift in disbelonging. Of all the people to be disinvited from this inclusion fest, it was me.
It struck at a moment of vulnerability, when one would be expected to seek solace and reconnection with one’s spirituality the most.
As I navigated the labyrinth of emotions, I realized this ritual was more than a gathering—it was a mirror reflecting the complexities of social connection, emerging spiritual groups, and the price of stigma, when challenges grew too big for a fledgeling group of quite-human organizers.
The highs of acceptance contrasted sharply with the lows of exclusion, revealing truths about identity and belonging. Or it could have been simply people being paranoid on illegal drugs.
It was a journey through shadows and light, where allegiances shifted like the phases of the moon. But instead of happening over hours like a desert-set trip, it unfolded over years as my mental health deteriorated.
In the years of imposed silence that followed, I pondered the delicate balance between inclusion and autonomy, between conformity and individuality.
I had been from a broken home. I had found my star family. I had found my moon family. And then it all broke, again.
Hard not to take it personally, my being at the center of my experience of it all.
Those momentous spaces with so many different people had taught me that belonging cannot be derived from external validation, but must also be nurtured from within. But without external validation, belonging becomes impossible.
It was a test of resilience and self-discovery, where the heart finds its home not in the approval of others, but in the embrace of authenticity, yet also discovering its limits.
Authenticity doesn’t provide us food, authenticity does not heal broken bones, nor does authenticity know how to correct harm – much less prevent it.
As desert ravers percolate under the waving of milky stars, I find solace in the realization that while paths diverge and seasons change, the journey towards belonging and what-is is a perpetual dance under phases of the moon.
Yet, with time, I’ve arrived at the understanding that when we create belonging, those who create belonging have a responsibility not to do harm.
Yet most groups intend to create an outgroup, they even thrive on there being a gap between the insiders and those outside.
It’s that duality of creating space for inclusion and then actively excluding that does real harm by bringing a shadow over the moments where actually-inclusive belonging was supposed to be possible.