The Unexpected Blessing of the Burn
This morning I made a friend on one of the roughest streets in Fort Lauderdale.
His name is Salty - at least, that’s what I’m calling him since I don’t have his permission to write about him. He’s about my height, thin build, beautiful dark brown skin with flecks of white in his beard. He wears a bejeweled Chicago Bulls necklace and rosary beads, a few teeth missing, and carries himself with a calm, patient awareness.
But let me back up, because understanding why this morning matters requires understanding where I’ve been.
A few weeks ago, I’m pretty sure someone died on my street. I came out to see three police cars and someone lying in the road a few houses down. I went to the local mart to get fresh water for our jug, and when I came back, my street had been barricaded off for two blocks. About a week later, there was another police barricade. The police had to move so I could get out of my driveway. I made sure to introduce myself to them so they’d know who I am, that I live here.
My street is a constantly changing scene of characters and activities. Some that cause the hairs on the back of my neck to rise up. There’s often police presence, and twice in the last month my street has been blocked off because of incidents.
When I first moved here, I was scared. This is a rough part of Fort Lauderdale. But my home is peaceful, and I truly feel protected.
This morning when I walked out onto my street, I felt like I was back at the burn.
I wasn’t walking out onto a scary street in Fort Lauderdale. I was seeing characters in costume, seeing fellow human beings, seeing individuals who I’m connected to by proximity, fate, circumstance - whatever it may be - expressing themselves the way that they do in the world. Walking this busy street on the way to whatever they’re doing. Some of them actually sit near the sidewalk with beach chairs and a beach umbrella. It’s uncanny, really, how much it felt like just walking out at the burn, seeing all the characters walking by.
Love Burn 2026 - where just a week ago we created Oasis, a mermaid camp. But what makes Mermaid Oasis magical takes teamwork, infrastructure, focus, persistence, perseverance, oh, and a little bit of magic. ✨🌈✨
Some of us arrived on Monday to start setting up. We dug trenches, built structures, outfitted pavilions and kitchens. One of the best DJs I’ve ever known created a triple-filtered water system and an amazing jellyfish structure with tentacles hanging down so people could fill their water bottles. The mermaid crew created beautiful infused waters. Because this year was a cold burn, we put out hot tea. We also set up an intentions bar - repurposed liquor bottles filled with water that had been intentionally blessed - where we helped hundreds of people bring intentionality to their experience, bring purpose to their play, bring awareness and protection.
It’s amazing to me the amount of work and dedication that goes into creating this experience. Being part of the hard work of setting up is one of my favorite aspects. I start to notice a little bit of ceremony that happens in every act of service, every curated piece of art and decoration.
I got to put together a water blessing ceremony for the first official day of the event, which was Thursday. We sat in a circle and I brought out the drum, gathered us together. I had delegated beautiful aspects of the ceremony to mermaids in the camp who I knew would love to be involved. I had one mermaid open the space and call in the directions. Another mermaid taught us a Sanskrit chant and we sang and harmonized together. A couple of mermaids led a blessing of the water, taking turns anointing everyone in the circle with blessings from the Waters.
At the end of the blessing, I sang a song that came through while I was walking with my mom and dad on Hollywood Beach just a couple weeks before the event:
🎶🧜♀️
We bring our blessings to the Waters
We bring our blessings to the sands
We bring the blessings of our friendships
While we’re walking hand-in-hand
Oh, and we’re thankful for the Waters
And we’re thankful for the sands
And we’re thankful for these friendships
We,ll keep walking hand in hand
🧜♀️🎶
The mermaids built a beautiful altar in the center - for the Waters, for our intentions, for a reminder of how connected we all are. We created a beautiful container for people to feel safe, to be protected, to hydrate.
It’s my mission and my work to create safe environments for independent exploration. That’s absolutely what I was hoping to do with Mermaid Oasis.
And that’s what we did. People came in all their costumes - fabulous, whimsical, some with no costumes at all. As Saturday night got closer, more and more characters converged on the beach to participate, to express, to share, to delight, and possibly even to grieve and to mourn. We welcomed them into the mermaid oasis and gave them water. We shared intentions from our intention bar. We met all kinds of people who were so grateful we were there.
Many of the participants had multiple costume changes per day, but there’s something about me that always stays the same: I bring songs. Ceremonially and just as an everyday part of the day. When I need to regulate my nervous system, I hum or sing. When I start using my ceremonial hand drum, I can almost feel how the vibrations clear the air around me. People are drawn in and calmed by the drumming and the singing.
We all felt like family. The energy extended out into this event that was curated and cultivated for connection. We said “welcome home” to strangers and meant it. We were all in this together, watching out for each other, protecting each other.
But there was darkness at the burn too. Friday night I walked into a venue with a giant spinning carousel in the center - the kind that spins so fast you feel like you might fly off if you don’t hold on tight. I could almost smell the alcohol, feel the energy of people losing control. It didn’t feel like the place for me, so I walked back to my tent while fireballs from the fire performers pulsed into the sky above me. Safe and cozy in my hidey hole.
The burn taught me to trust my own regulation. When I came back from the airport wound up from travel and traffic, I knew I needed to settle my nervous system before helping load the truck. I took my guitar and drum to the beach, asked the umbrella camp if I could play there, walked along the edge of the crashing waves and began to hum. All I really need is my drum. (I actually damaged my guitar a little bit - couldn’t play it anymore after that, but it was all in flow.)
As I was leaving camp, one of my campmates made a point of thanking me, saying how much difference it made to hear the drumming, the singing. Another friend said, “I had no idea you could sing like that. I thought someone was playing a recording out here, and I looked out and it was you.”
This morning, when I began unloading my car, Salty walked up. It was just like walking out of my camp at the burn and seeing all the characters walk through the event - that same feeling of recognizing another human being in their own expression, on their own path. He was careful - kept his distance at first. Here in Fort Lauderdale, I’ve learned that when neighbors offer to help, it’s often because they want to ask for money afterward. So when he asked if I wanted help unloading my car I said no. But he didn’t let that deter him, and he could tell I wasn’t scared of him.
He started telling me stories about the house. How he helped a neighbor cut down limbs so critters would stop climbing into the house through the exhaust. How he once got up on the roof to brush off all the dirt and mud so it wouldn’t cave in. How the vents around the awnings used to be netting and critters would get in. “It’s a really nice house,” he said. And it is. It has a lovely backyard.
Then he said something that sparked a sense of magic in me: “This is the first time I’ve seen grass growing in that backyard.”
Salty knows the owner. I don’t know how long he’s been on this street, but I’d guess a really long time. He’s known many of the occupants of this house, seen a lot of repairs. And now - grass growing for the first time.
What’s growing in me that couldn’t grow before?
My sovereignty. The trust in my faith and my own abilities. My connection to spirit. A way forward that’s separated from my past and my expectations for what family would look like. The constant reminder of the faith that helps me get through this difficult transition, to know that amazing things are in store for me - even though I can’t see them yet. Beautiful and expansive opportunities available for me here in South Florida. Some of the miracles I will need to create for myself. Others I will trust are coming.
I looked at him with his bejeweled necklace and rosary beads, his calm presence. “My name is Shalene,” I said. He looked me in the eye, extended his hand, shook mine, then kissed the top of my hand. “I’m Salty,” he said. “I’m a watcher, a protector, a prayer.”
So I asked if I could sing him a song.
I walked inside and got my hand drum and came back out and started to sing “Born for This Mission” by Indie Arie. Someone drove up and he left for a moment to talk to them. I kept singing. When he was done, he came back over and listened for just a little bit until we each continued along with our day.
I noticed that when he was talking to me, I took the time to breathe and listen instead of being scared and trying to dart off. Yes, I need to be safe. Yes, I need to stay protected. Yes, it’s important for me to have clear and strong boundaries, to notice when someone’s energy is off.
But this morning, I made a friend on one of the roughest streets in Fort Lauderdale.
There are things from Love Burn I’m keeping for myself. Sacred things. Things I can’t even put into words yet - may never be able to. The magic is so powerful that I’m still trying to fully understand it.
But this story needed to be told, because the magic didn’t stay contained in those five days. The burn taught me that we’re all in this together - watching, protecting, praying. It taught me to trust my regulation, to walk away when energy feels wrong, to offer my drum and my voice when it feels right.
At the burn, these magical moments happened when you’re close enough to make eye contact, to hear the quality and nuances of each other’s voices. That’s how deeper connections form. That’s how we all start to feel a little less alone.
And that’s exactly what happened this morning with Salty. Shared conversations and presence in the midst of the work of the day - me unloading my car, him perhaps waiting for a customer.
The grass growing in my backyard is my sovereignty taking root. I’m in Fort Lauderdale, building something entirely my own. Trusting faith instead of formulas.
And I’m learning to believe that my singing has value. Not someday, when I figure out the right business model. But right now. This morning. When I sang for Salty on the street.
How am I gonna sing as much as I want to and make money? Can I believe in myself enough to put myself out there?
Maybe the answer is already happening. Maybe it’s in every moment I pick up the drum and offer the gift.
🎶🧜♀️
We bring our blessings from the Waters
We bring our blessings to the sands
We bring the blessings of our friendships
When we’re in a foreign land
Oh, and we’re thankful for the Waters
And we’re thankful for the sands
And we’re thankful for these friendships
We’ll keep walking hand in hand🧜♀️🎶
