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Sept. 23, 2011
Advice from the desert
From-the-hip opinions meet festival free-for-all.
BAILA LAZARUS
Traveling to Burning Man, I was quite sure I’d bump into a few kippah-wearing Ju-bus and a handful of displaced Israelis, and I wasn’t disappointed. But what I didn’t expect to find was a “free advice” stand in the middle of the desert run by a Jewish mother from Portland.
Meet Lisa Schroeder – Philadelphia born, New York tinted and now living in Portland where she owns Mothers Restaurant.
Invited by friends to Burning Man three years ago, she maintains she thought she was going to Birmingham. She found herself, instead, at a music, arts and life festival that draws tens of thousands of participants who live in unforgiving conditions for one week every year.
Each person coming to Burning Man, located in Black Rock City, Nev., generally asks themselves how they can contribute in this environment whose 10 principals include radical self-reliance, communal effort, participation and gifting.
“I was trying to think of what the essence is of who I am,” said Schroeder, who is a grandmother. “I feel everyone needs a Jewish mother, just not their own. I’m there to give real advice that you need but won’t listen to from your own mom.”
The truth as she sees it
She’s not joking. As we’re chatting on the Playa, as the physical area of Burning Ban is known, a man comes along asking for advice on a new relationship. Schroeder asks direct questions. She’s open to what he has to say, nodding, showing understanding. But she can tell something doesn’t sound right.
“Does she drink?” she asks outright. Somewhat abashedly, the client admits that his girlfriend might be alcoholic and he is an enabler.
“Well, that’s a horse of a different color,” she says firmly in a strong New York Jewish accent. “Then that’s what you have to take care of first. Nothing else can be resolved until this is taken care of. Now get out of here.”
She shoos him away.
“I speak my truth,” she says. “It’s not the truth; it’s just my truth.
“I have fun. I’m honest. I can say whatever I want. Take it or leave it. They’re not paying for it. But if I get asked one more time where the porta-potties are, I’ll spit.”
She almost sounds annoyed with her clients and her environment; so why does she keep coming back for what is now her third year?
“I know it nourishes me, but I can’t say how. I could care less about the burn. [Considered the highlight of the gathering, an effigy is burned as the festival finishes on Labor Day weekend]. At Burning Man, every minute is like living days. There is so much going on.”
As if to prove her point, a group of about 150 naked bike riders, mostly men, cruise into an area in front of Schroeder’s tent. They disembark and stand in line for drinks from a camp next door. Schroeder immediately sees an opportunity to be a contribution. She heads into her RV and comes out with a large tray of homemade cookies.
“You must be so hungry!” she says as she wanders into the mix of nude “burners.” She’s soon surrounded by appreciative noshers.
“Come and have a bagel, too,” she says.
Each morning, as her contribution to the community, she sets up a table of bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon (that she laments is “a little on the dry side”), onions and tomatoes. People crowd around and ask her advice or just tell her what they’ve been up to the day before. She loves to hear their stories.
It’s clear that taking care of people is second nature to Schroeder. In Portland, where she runs Mothers, she gives business advice to mothers who are entrepreneurs, people who are opening or running a new business and members of the restaurant community. She’s also held Passover seders at her restaurant.
It’s a far cry from standing in the 35-degree heat under a flimsy shade structure as Playa dust gets everywhere, listening to people complain about their co-dependent relationships. And, oh yes, giving people directions to the nearest porta-potties.
Baila Lazarus is a freelance writer, painter and photographer. This was her first foray to Burning Man and she will be going back.
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