It's a simple piece of wood. At first glance, nothing special, but for me, this board contains an entire life story. It's a piece of a temple. A temple that's only open for exactly seven days each year. In this short time, it's a place of refuge, grief, and hope for thousands. This temple stands in the middle of a salt desert in Nevada and is part of the annual Burning Man festival there. I visited it for the first time in 2012 and expected everything else—costumes, art, music, and crazy people—but certainly not this special wooden structure. Like many before me who set foot through the large archway for the first time, this place touched and changed me deeply. The walls are covered with very personal notes and posters with pictures of deceased friends and relatives. The reason all this means so much to me is that, shortly before I left for the USA, two people I was very close to died. In the midst of the colorful desert hustle and bustle, I found a place here to process what had happened. Instead of suppressing my feelings in the hedonistic party excesses of the festival, I was able to say goodbye in this temple. In 2014, I went to Burning Man for the second time - this time with something special in my luggage. I smuggled some of my grandparents' ashes through customs in two small, decorated boxes. At sunrise on the last day of the festival, I brought them to the temple - the place that helped me so much to overcome the loss. Today, this piece of wood, hanging on the wall in my apartment, reminds me every day how precious life is and that no matter how chaotic the world around us may be, there is a little piece of heaven everywhere.
