The Hare Krishnas would be coming out in good time to sing and dance for everyone and everything. I was eight in the summer of 1985, vacationing with my silent generation relatives in Ocean City, MD, in an apartment on First St. at The Haven Hotel. Poppy knew how much I loved to sing and dance. He got some bells. In cultural relativism, we would jingle and jangle along with the Hare Krishna chants from the second-floor balcony of our apartment. I watched the Hare Krishnas in long white robes, shaved heads revealing a tuft of hair, and no shoes.

The iconography became a vision for me to return to later in my life.

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I have been a yoga teacher for much of my lifetime, and my mission is to see the light, but first, do no harm. Nowadays, the principle of not harming others appears as the latter of our efforts, while it should be steadily and comfortably at the forefront. I do not adhere to any particular religion, and I do not discriminate either. Am I agnostic? I don’t believe or disbelieve.

Before I became a mother, I spent most of my time exploring artistic endeavors and self-discovery at raves in Baltimore, MD. Inside the warehouse, enraptured by the sounds, fueled by Baltimore Club music, drum and bass, house, hip-hop, and goth, it appeared to me that everyone felt unified by love and freedom of expression. Strobe lights resembled an Aurora Borealis. The cowbells rang, and breakers shredded the dance floor: glow sticks, whistles, candy necklaces, and platform shoes. We all huddled near the courtyard entrance for the CloudWatch ambiance.

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On our visits to Ocean City, MD., my grandmother, Marilyn, packed me sand toys, turtles, fish, and castle molds inside a large, bright blue drawstring bag with bold orange and red flowers handsewn by her. Day after day, I played in the sand. Sand can be anything. I added my hands, imagination, and a bucket. Whatever I dreamed, it came true.

Outside the Boardwalk Haven Hotel in Ocean City, MD., was an artist, Randy Hofman. Randy would sculpt images from the Bible by wetting the sand with the hotel's garden hose. Floodlights set up and tiki torches lit, and people would come up and down the coast to watch the magic of sculpting Bible stories from the sand. I didn’t understand the so-called “mystery of faith,” but, I wanted to know everything I could about religion. I didn’t enjoy the church building, sitting, standing, or kneeling. But again, I wanted to know, and no disrespect to Jesus, I simply didn’t want to eat the wafer described as the body of Christ.

 Randy’s dust-covered surfer body emerged from the hill of sand, transforming angles, shapes, shadows, and hidden writings that read, All are Welcome, LOVE, Alive Again, Thank You, Jesus. You would see the sacred hearts, angel wings, saints, sunrises, and a sculptor sculpting a collection of sacred songs, prayers, and poems in the Bible called Psalms in the sand. You would see a man create an altar made of sand. Once created, don’t get too attached, it’s temporary and shall pass with the next rain or until someone stumbles over the landscape.

I called my great-grandmother Nana, my favorite relative, born in Baltimore, MD., 1917. And my primary caregiver since my mother was a minor when I was born. Nana was widowed and had her pride from having worked for McCormick and Company for forty-five years, wore a dangly charm bracelet gifted to her by the company, and the bosses would present her with a new charm when she hit a milestone. The bracelet was a gold, curb link chain with seven charms. Four charms were the uppercase M and the lowercase c signature of “Mc” Cormick and Company. Each had a precious gemstone: an emerald, a ruby, a diamond, and a sapphire. Two charms were logos, a triangle at the base of it, and an open-rooted tree grew into the center with a mustard seed, which, in Christianity, is a symbol of faith. It’s tiny but can grow into a sturdy plant, transforming challenges into steady absorption. The seventh charm was a globe of the world that embodied the Earth in a miniature form, with delicate outlines of continents and swirls of blue ocean, symbolizing adventure, curiosity, and interconnectedness. The Earth charm reflected the balance of nature, the richness of cultures across continents, and the wonder of exploration: a reminder of the world's vastness and the smallness of our place within it. I held Nana’s hand, as she would sing as sweetly as she could as we strolled down the boardwalk, singing, “She’s got the whole world in her hands.” Every small step, I would count, sing, and sway.

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My mother worked with unspoken wisdom. I learned from her how a mother's choices shape experiences, and she worked on finances in Baltimore while I vacationed with the older people. I learned about her fear of survival as accounting was her way of mothering, ensuring she had enough to get by, and how she nurtured herself and carved new paths. I followed a breadcrumb trail to explore my heritage and identity, and she expected that I would care for myself physically and emotionally. And so, I did.

Rave was about people creating their reality. I recall introducing myself to the book Be Here Now by Ram Dass (Richard Alpert). Handed to me at a rave afterparty by a DJ, placed on a pedestal like a Guru. The book serves as both a guide and an invitation to awaken and break free from the ego, time, and societal conditioning so that living in the present moment becomes the ultimate freedom. At its heart, Be Here Now sparked a shift in my consciousness and provided a divine connection I craved at the time to dismantle the illusion of separateness. Like sand, it was a point of my first steps towards divinity, however weirdly cultish.

The “DOX” Paradox Club, every other Thursday in the 90s—one of the longest-running club nights in America. The space was beyond race and differences; cultural boundaries dissolved like an Altoid on your tongue—Baltimore’s hidden world with a main room for house music. Stepping into the foyer was like crossing a threshold between worlds to the concession spot. The taste of sweat, the smell of smoke, weed, incense, and concrete walls, you stick to the ground. We called it “the smell of FEVER.”

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My nature and constitution were sparky. I would hide behind the dunes or boardwalk shops in Ocean City, MD., until one of the older people shouted that they would have a heart attack if they didn’t find me. Smelling the sweet taffy and salty malt vinegar French fries.

Nana would try calling me to her, “Jessie Elaine! Get your ass over here before I rap you one!” It is as if any child is going to come running for rapping. My favorite song was “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.”

Nana had two daughters, Elaine and my grandmother, Marilyn. My Aunt Elaine (Anna Lane) and Uncle Larry came along on the summer vacation. Uncle Larry would let me bury him in the sand up to his neck. Nana always called Uncle Larry a dago. Uncle Larry, nicknamed Shugie, short for Sugar, would return it to Nana and call her as mean as a junkyard dog. Then, kiss on both cheeks, give a big smile, and give hugs. The family joyfully poked and prodded one another. Salt of the earth kind of people, and I never underestimated their bond.

I watched, and I listened as my relatives dressed me up like a gun-slinging hussy, a femme fatale at the boardwalk old-time photo saloon. In their frontier attire, they propped me up on a bar stool, fishnets with oversized high heels dangling from my feet. We all huddled together, with booze bottles in hand, and with a fearless smile, the camera flashed. My childhood was a mild letdown of forced resilience, having its peaches and pits, and looked much different than the American cookie-cutter Family image of Mom, Dad, and two or three kids.

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I knew nothing of life outside of Baltimore, just as I knew nothing of who I belonged to, though I had been born to a teenage mother and a father. All I was aware of was that she and he were no longer together. The details of their departure were stored away, which my ears would become privy to through the family gossip, and I don’t remember anything about my father from that time except a glance back now and then to a closet where I was found when I was two or three. All I was aware then was that I had gum in my hair, which my grandmother, not my great-grandmother, had stood me in front of the mirror stroking peanut butter through my tendrils to remove the gum. Still, she eventually cut the ends off because they were too straggly after all the combing.

I distinctly remember my mother as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I recall comparing her fondly to the other mothers, and she is a stellar beauty. My mother and I lived with Nana (my great-grandmother), and when confronted by new people, most thought Nana was our mother and we were sisters. And I recall liking it that way.

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As little as I was, I was on the beach with my golden pigtail hair and teeny-weeny red bikini. I stood with Nana's hand in my hand, jumping waves rolling on the sand.

“Nana,” I said. “I want to ask those kids over there to be my friend.”

“Go on ahead, then, Jessie,” Nana replied. “Stay in my eye range.”

I grabbed the sand toy bag and dragged it over to meet the group of kids. Then, I exclaimed, “Hi! I’m Jessie. Will you be my friend?”  I don’t recall their response, but we patted, smashed, and scooped the sand. Moments like this were the peaches of being an only child with silent generation chaperones. I would wander and meet and greet everyone. I was uninhibited when I was allowed to talk and get a word in. I put all the advanced vocabulary words and phrases I had learned to the test. Making myself the perfect companion.

Then, the pit, Nana decided to introduce herself to the parents, who were standing nearby. I heard her say the usual introduction, and my brow furrowed. She began the story as always, with a sigh of sorrow and strength.

“Jessie came into this world with the odds stacked against her. My great grandbaby, no father.” Nana would shake her head and put her hand over her mouth. “We bring her down the ocean with us yearly while her mother works extra shifts at the hospital.” Nan’s voice would dip lower as she told my secret. I never understood why she thought exposing my orphan-like situation would help me make new friends. “And let me tell you something — that ass who didn’t stick around to raise his child, shame on him.” That was it. As soon as she started cussing, I knew I was going to be ostracized from meeting new friends. I watched the parents roll up their blankets and move to a different spot.

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The theory is that the individual self is social and seeks acceptance within a collective. As I glanced into the meaning of rave, I saw that it has shifted along with the postmodern era and subsequent post-subculture theories associated with subculture, many of which arose due to the contemporary version of rave: club culture. As the digital age has grown, we sit with an obliterated existence of the internal self, replacing the experiencing self with the mere images of itself. The apparent advantages of lysergic acid diethylamide experiments only send people to insanity, create revolutions, or lead to becoming assassins. The cost of LSD in the new age will cost us our true identity and pluralism. The hypothesis behind the experiment is to see if people are still pliable. Can they be entangled, controlled, and without their religious (and other) identities?

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The waves at the end of the day washed further onto shore, and I would watch the pools fill as sand crabs emerged from the bottom of the granular blend. One of the old people shouted, “Go dig a hole in China!” So, I dug a sand hole tucked away beneath a dune and sat in it. The hole was perfect, soft, golden sand. It was my retreat and quiet kingdom, where the ordinary transformed into something extraordinary as I felt the cool grains slip between my fingers, time slowed, the sun shone, and the water warmed. I would scoop water into buckets, fill my hole, lie back, and float inside. I would keep my face above water, but my skull and ears submerged, listening to the Om sound within. The sand speaks in a language older than memory. Each grain carries an echo of an ancient land, a reminder of impermanence. My gentle invitation to pause, I floated back, belly up in my hole, silencing the outer world while listening to my heartbeat.

While floating in my hole, my hand touched this mortal coil of a shell like me, a burden that can be carried or abandoned.

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Rave existed after the mods, rockers, and punks. It began as a basis for coming together regardless of skin color, religious beliefs, or social ladder—multiculturalism, where everybody shares the same dance floor. I remember many signs at security checks upon entering raves on the East Coast, such as Buzz, Fever, Milky Way, Rise, Sunrise Festival, and Burning Man in the West. The signs read something like, "This is a space for freedom and exploration, beyond race and religion, no violence, trade only, no cash, all amplified rules at the gate to the underground, gone for weeks in the woods of mind lapses and digressive experiences."

The world is in a grain, from concrete foundations to stained glass windows. From America to China, sand is crucial to our lives. Incredibly, we are running out of it. Every grain of sand plays a role in protecting the shore from crashing waves, supporting tiny creatures, and nature doesn’t have time to refill it. Though I was only eight during the old people's summer vacations, I believed that if every one of my relatives cared more and more, I would be safe. So, I kept them caring. I kept them wondering where I was so that I could watch them care. There are no heart-to-hearts with the silent generation. It was only show and tell. And so, I did.

“Don’t go feeling sorry for that child,” Nana said. “She knows she's wanted. She’s got more than some ever find,” she said. “She’s got some sand.”

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In 2001, I had been dating my future husband, Billy Mode, an East Baltimore graffiti writer and DJ. We drove a U-Haul and a van to Burning Man with our raver friends from Baltimore. We named our camp after the goddess Lilith, from Mesopotamian and Jewish mythology. Lilith refused to be subservient to her husband, and she left Adam and the perfection of the Garden of Eden. Billy and I made a snake mobile art installation from PVC piping and foam. Billy graffitied the head of the serpent while I dressed the bones in aqua scrim.

The theme from August 27th-September 3rd, 2001, was “Seven Ages”—a prophetic and mystic encounter with the divine communal transformation of the self from childhood to death. Our Sonic Soul crew from Baltimore had submitted a proposal, “Lilith and her Garden,” months in advance and were awarded a prime spot on the esplanade next to the tech and design crew from Lucas Film. The map of the playa at Burning Man was an enormous board game. Shakespeare's quote from “As You Like It” is: “All the world’s a stage, And all men and women merely players.”

I wondered how the Earth dreamt itself into a phoenix in the sky. There were an infinite number of stars. Nothing held onto them. Everything was dust and will be dust again. The windstorm on the playa in 2001 was tumultuous. You wore facemasks while sleeping. The hand in front of your face was like a sign from a distant memory, and the horizon smelled like bones as we spun fire poi, erasing the trails once remembered as the sea. We walked into a sense of nowhere, turning into somewhere. I recall that the mausoleum was constructed of wooden toy templates, a monument on the Promenade that formed a central axis of our lifespan, with photos displayed honoring ancestors' careers: family members, friends, mentors, and lovers. I didn’t have a picture to share because I had not yet experienced the passing of someone I knew. All the old people from the silent generation, whose summer vacations I attended, were still alive and safe in Baltimore. Near the end of the Burning Man event, all that accumulated in the Mausoleum would burn, cremated on an ornate funeral pyre. Lacking a photo, I displayed the journals I had compiled from childhood. The fire whisked them into everything that was already moving into the sunset. It was a trial by nature, isolation, unadorned and unsoftened. It purified me, in a way, and surviving it felt like I earned a piece of my soul back. However, Burning Man was a one and done for me.

In Yoga, the Sanskrit word Samskara has layers of meaning. At the core, it refers to deep impressions left on the mind and soul by thoughts and actions. Burning Man was not just a memory. It was an energetic imprint that influenced my habits. Like footprints in wet sand, there was a trace. Upon returning to Baltimore, a tragedy occurred in New York City. The news of 9/11 was one of the most painful events in modern history, forever altering an indelible global scar.

Tied to the atmosphere and culture around them, raves have dim lighting, loud music, heavy sensory stimulation that disorients people from one another, losing track of time, and becoming vulnerable to accidents and harm. Tired from intense music and the heightened emotions from substances, people leave themselves open to manipulation or coercion. Every person for themselves, an environment where accountability can slip like sand, not holding its shape, as a single grain of sand is helpless against the elements. No matter how many grains of sand pile together or reshape on a vast desert or beach, they are all at the mercy of nature.

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I shoveled through my childhood for a clear egress, and by the time I became an adult, I had concluded that I had raised myself to nurture and love with a karmic purpose. I am writing this essay on my forty-eighth birthday in 2025. My mother called to wish me a happy birthday and asked, “What are you doing to celebrate today?”

I replied, “I’m working on an essay connecting Rave culture to MK-Ultra.”

As I read the paper to her, Jackie stopped me and said, “Well, everyone knows that!” My husband stood beside me in the kitchen, shaking his head with a hopeless look. She went on to talk about her apiary of bee hives. I listened. My husband invited my mother to call in when we sang Happy Birthday. Her reply was, “I’m good.” I wandered back to when we made jewelry together and drew to collecting crystals, bones, and semiprecious stones. She saw a delicate skeleton of intricate curves weaving an unbroken chain of vertebrae on one of her journeys, gathering materials for our jewelry-making sessions.

After our phone call, I searched for the necklace in my life box. It’s a serpent, long since stripped of flesh. I don’t know where my mother found it, but it must be over 100 years old. The bones are perfectly intact. Carefully, I recall, she split the vertebrae into halves, cleaned each bone, and shaped the idea. Woven strands of leather added a Shiva eye stone in the center of the two. She finished fastening a clasp to both necklaces. Gave me one for my birthday when I was twenty-four with a card that read, “She walks with old magic.”

Later in the evening, my mother called back. We sang, “Happy Birthday.”

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There’s a story whispered through the underground where the bass drops into sand and spirits unbound from their bodies. Lilith walks among them but doesn’t enter through the front gate. She appears barefoot at the edge of the playa, and the music bends around her existence. A breakbeat blends into her heartbeat. She dances for herself, and her body is both ancient and new. She is the first woman to have said, “No.” She’s got some sand, and she's choosing exile over obedience. Lilith carves open a space between night and day, and no one sees her leave.

Distraction can lead you from the real to the unreal, and raving becomes a release valve, a chaotic space, and you get lost in festivals where systemic issues bleed into the earth, diluting a sense of purpose. Some build bridges between the two worlds to reduce psychedelic harm, drug policy reform, and decriminalization—some burn out on both. I have learned that balance and intent matter under sand, from the unreal to the real. Everything is dust with a newborn hush.