Sacred Celebration: Xeno & Ourselves
(10 min read)
One year ago today, on Saturday September 14th 2019, I participated in one of the most significant events of my life. It was a birthday party as well as a celebration of the founding of Xeno Park. Around fifty friends and family members were there and the night was as magical as you could possibly imagine.
It was a rite of passage in a way. In a space—my parents’ desert ranch property—that I had experienced only as either a child or as a passive “follower.” Being the de facto host of the event put me in a position of authority (perhaps what I mean is “maturity”) that I had never assumed before. At least not in this context. I grew up the daughter of people I perceived as “giants,” and it took me well into my thirties to shake off the sense that I would only ever “look up” to them, or to anyone I felt deserving of respect, for that matter.
We had worked so hard leading up to this moment. 27 palm trees were “de-bearded” of dead leaves that had been stacking up since the early nineties. An 8,000 square foot deck as well as a large gazebo were scrubbed, power washed, re-stained and sealed for the occasion. The pool was brought to sparkling perfection. Patio furniture assembled or relocated from wherever we could find it. Custom benches delivered. Lights strung. Catering and DJ organized and last minute decorations pulled together on a shoestring budget. We had worked feverishly up to the very last minute. And then the moment came to let go. Get changed. Put on the celebratory paint, and emerge to commence the festivities.
When you’re used to a place you simply cannot understand how others perceive it. All we had been focused on were the flaws, the shortcomings, the “nots” and “shoulds” and “wishwehads.” But as friend after friend arrived—couples, families, soul mates, and heart siblings—an echoing theme emerged: The expression of incredulity. Genuine surprise. Admiration. Joyful appreciation. Like, “Wow. Oh my god. This is AMAZING!?!” Right?! Right.
The scale of the place does something to the psyche. Petty energy dissipates, because it has nothing to bounce off of. The mature trees, many over 60 feet tall, put you right in your place. We are used to “nature” with its wild and untouched vistas, and we are used to the “built environment” that caters to (or shall we say forces us into) our habitual domesticated behaviors. What is rare for most of us is an experience of “place” that is natural and wild, and yet clearly shaped by human intention, at the same time. It re-calibrates the senses and momentarily allows you to experience your Self at a different scale.
Consider how various sacred traditions describe the human energy field as extending anywhere between five and fifteen feet outward from the skin in all directions. When you’re hiking in the mountains, or walking through untouched fields, it can sometimes feel like your energy is lost, just a drop in the ocean, flowing off away from you into the vast expanse of “nature.” By contrast, when you’re in a place that has no built barriers and yet trees and plants arranged at the spiritual yet human scale, you can sense your full self—auric, etheric, astral, celestial, you name it—able to unfold and expand, and at the same time feel contained. “Seen.” “Held.” “Affirmed.”
We wandered, introduced, explored, and huddled. Many ended up coming into the house, the undeniable anchor to the Oasis. We indulged in gallons of my stepfather’s signature cocktail: the Mojave Green. There was feasting and gobbling and chatting away. Children played and ran around. When the sun began to set we made our way to a viewing area by the Cottonwood tree, everyone carrying a camping chair or two. Stepping through the tree portal revealed the Preserve’s gently curving zen-like horizons against which jutted the iconic outlines of Joshua trees. Everything was bathed in golden light, the air full of silence.
We settled into our various seats and took it all in. A few people had brought professional cameras and were clicking away, capturing the glory. My friend and Xeno Park’s co-founder, Lou, spoke a few words. I think I may have said something too, though I can’t remember what. I do remember bursting with gratitude and a sense of poignancy: to have brought so many loved ones together, people from very different parts of my life—the fact itself felt like a major achievement, and a great big “f*** you” to all the forces that work to fragment, separate, and isolate us.
There came a moment of natural quiet, a collective acknowledgment of the stunning beauty around us, and a silent but palpable agreement to allow it to sink in. It was a while into this moment when, completely unexpectedly, a friend (Stefano) began playing the steel drum—a sound so utterly perfect, the timing so divine, it made me smile and shake my head at the universe—much like you would at a friend who has managed to pull off one incredibly thoughtful act after another during a surprise birthday party.
By the time we returned to the Oasis it was almost pitch black—lighting is a challenge in such a vast space. I felt the urge to turn inward, to cocoon myself for a moment, and made a beeline for the gazebo to get all the candles lit. The transition from Light to Darkness is so remarkable and full of magic, it’s a shame it happens so quickly. We eventually gathered together again on the deck for a spectacular cake: a spherical chocolate extravaganza decorated with a purple candle in the shape of a “1” and the words “Happy Day of Birth to Eliza & Xeno Park” inscribed with blue frosting. I remember the wish I made blowing out that candle. It radiated through my whole body and bounced right out of my toes and fingertips.
Globes of light were brought outside. The children gathered, the music got louder, and I was informed that there would be spoken word performances. We found our way into the right arrangement, the children up front and the elders in back, a pattern as old as man and womankind. I had the extraordinary honor of receiving tribute speeches and spoken word poetry performances by close friends—made all the more remarkable because their respective talents and natures of soul were such that in both content and manner of delivery their personal messages of love resonated with a universal relevance and value that touched and I think elevated all who listened.
Some had to be on their way by then. Others put their kids to sleep on the living room floor amidst a hodgepodge of blankets and pillows before joining us on our way to the bonfire. We’d gotten a special permit from the county’s fire department for the occasion (it expired a few days ago). We settled around the fire in a half-moon shape, opening bottles of wine and enjoying yet another surprise performance: a virtuoso tribute by famed artist Kian using what I can only ineptly describe as a kind of vertical xylophone instrument. It ceremoniously “rang in” the reflective or philosophical part of the evening. My son had been running wild and free, but was fast asleep just minutes after these sounds had finished reverberating through our space. A few more people took their leave, and the dozen or so of us who were left settled down, recalibrating our collective awareness and individual social dispositions to the new configuration. All the die-hard seekers were present: The philosophers. The believers. The skeptics. The artists. The healers. The lovers, knights, and princesses.
What unfolded then is an experience so special and important to me that I feel anxious attempting to describe it. All distractions had been taken care of. The earthly festivities had run their course. We had arrived at something holy. A sacred moment. An opportunity. To look. To confront. To really—and I mean really—talk. The stars above. Nothing but desert for miles around. A fire before us. The consciousness of a uniquely attuned group of souls gathered together. The questions that eventually broke the silence came through my throat, but they might as well have burst forth from a crack in the very ground beneath our feet, so inevitable and primordial was their force. “What is this? What are we? Who are we? What are we doing here? WHY?”
God, gods, predestination, fate, faith, physics, quantum reality, black holes, relativity, consciousness, psyche, purpose, truth, death, metaphysics, and love. Mission. Stakes. Sides. Trials. We covered it all. I cannot recount the individual strands of the conversation, but I can tell you that for an unusually long period of time the entire group was 100 percent engaged, even though only two or three people were locked in locution at any given time. It may also be worth stating that, to the best of my knowledge, no one was tripping or high on anything other than Mojave Green and excellent red wine.
It felt like we had gathered on Mount Olympus. A conference of avatar operators on a timeout from their daily game, or perhaps engaging in a special prerequisite side-level strategy talk before starting on a new quest. The moment felt like it mattered, in a way that few moments do. Because we were present, fully present, as that which most uniquely defines us. We spoke in terms of our true scales: eons and galaxies. In an important way I want to say that it wasn’t just a matter of focus, but a matter of conjuring. The removing of distractions and the presence of a conducive context are necessary, yes, but they alone do not just “reveal” something that is always there. We step up to be who we truly are only when that is possible, and specifically when we are called to do so. The provision of the opportunity comes close to an act of invoking in that sense. And we invoked ourselves, and each other that night, I believe, and made a mark—on the space, in that moment in time, in each others’ memories, and in our own hearts. The quality of the moment has an eternal flavor to it, and a substantive quality of sorts. In the words of an artist who goes by the name of Vanet and who was present that night:
“If that night/moment could be a constant (timeless) feeling of an abyss that blankets over all of us . . . where we could escape alone but not alone . . . where we would constantly have that reassured feeling of it never ending—that feeling of being and existing in such a still place where outside forces aren’t pushing and pulling on us in every way possible . . . existing in a space, feeling like that . . . that feeling of all of us there, where we all had a vision, the energy and the fact that we were all gathered there because we all had those in common [. . . ] then maybe . . . in this life it would be a version of perfect. That unique experience we wouldn’t ever want to let go of—all of us at least by what it SEEMS to be, where we come together by connecting as close as we can get to maybe being on the same consciousness or level of awareness—disregarding the individual and their soul’s purpose. That’s what that space creates.”
Moments have a way of reaching both forward and backward in the illusion we call “time,” and I believe this one plays and will continue to play a special role as a significant nodal junction in the inter-dimensional rivers of both our personal and collective experiences. It’s no small part of what sustains me in our ongoing work of shepherding the vision of Xeno Park into three-dimensional reality. But more on that later. For now, I just want to express my gratitude to each and every soul who was involved in this experience, whether you were there for a few hours or well into the night. To the close friends who were not able to be there (yes, I mean you): please know that the celebration was less complete because of your absence. Not less perfect, but less complete.
A final thought. Have you noticed how during gatherings and celebrations (particularly with truly kindred spirits) we enter zones of emotional levity and spiritual joyousness that feel so right, so familiar, so natural, and necessary in the moment, that we wonder how we manage to go for so long without them? There are few things I feel comfortable asserting unequivocally in 2020, but this is one of them: Being together, closely together, celebrating, enjoying food, art, music, conversation, and storytelling are essential to humanity. It is the very point of being alive, and there are no substitutes for this togetherness. Least of all “digital” ones. If gathering in person should ever become a revolutionary act, expect me on the barricades. Fierce, and unapologetic.
P.S.: While driving to a new lakefront park in Nashville with my son today, I had the pleasure of listening to Krista Tippett’s On Being interview with Cloud Cult’s frontman Craig Minowa, titled “Music as Medicine.” What an extraordinarily life-affirming conversation—I highly recommend it. A lyric from their song “Through the Ages” (from The Seeker album) struck me, and I want to leave you with it after this long post, perhaps as a down-to-earth way of formulating the imperative advice that might emerge from fully absorbing what I tried to describe:
“I’m done being stupid and worried and dramatic,
so I lay down my every disguise
. . . if ever I can’t see the magic around me,
please take my hands off my eyes.”
