We are artists, musicians, nomads from the playa— spirits with open hearts, ready to embrace the rhythm of community.
With fresh land beneath our feet, we build our temples, eagerly approaching neighbors, inviting them to share in our joy.
Yet cautious eyes reflect concern:
fear of noise, dust, and fire— ranchers with herds, vintners with vines, families rooted in faith, cherishing the stillness under starlit skies.
Our excitement ignites a flame, drawing hundreds of friends to dance around fires, where laughter mingles with the night.
But we must heed our neighbors’ unease— their lives shifting, familiar quiet now transformed into a bustling carnival.
As we gather again, frustrations rise like smoke— noise disrupting their peace, the tranquility they hold dear scattered like ash on the wind.
Initially, we assert our right to celebrate, but soon we notice weariness in their faces, tender needs beneath stoic exteriors, burdens they carry in silence.
Can we bridge this divide?
Perhaps through smaller gatherings, potlucks, or barbecues under the stars, where joy mingles with familiar faces, honoring coexistence in a vibrant, shared community.
Desert Dweller 