This year, I visited Burning Man from the confines of my own living room… through a virtual reality headset.

It wasn't amazing by any stretch — laggy graphics, few people online in my timezone, and no real human interaction. But the candle of nostalgia needs very little coaxing, and I'm grateful for the folks at Dusty Multiverse for providing the spark.

Burning Man means different things to different people. Over the years, I've found myself using it as a kind of yardstick for "existential health."

Similar to how a former competitive athlete might measure themselves against past personal records. Despite falling short of their former peak, an athlete can still draw strength from the knowledge that "I did that. I've been there before."

But instead of physical feats, I try to recall feats of presence, self-awareness, and goodwill towards strangers. Instead of chest-thumping accomplishment, I seek out a head-bowing sense awe.

It's a strange medicine for strange times.

"Thousands of Europeans are Indians, and we have no examples of even one of those Aborigines having from choice become European,” a French émigré named Hector de Crèvecoeur lamented in 1782. “There must be in their social bond something singularly captivating and far superior to anything to be boasted of among us."

— Sebastian Junger, Tribe

Modern life, if you haven't noticed, isn't particularly good for existential health. Under its onslaught, even the securely-attached and highly-conscientious may struggle to keep their Teflon mindfulness from flaking-off.

For the most part, we cope with day-to-day escapes and medications — whether they be craft beer, Soul Cycle, rock climbing, Korean soap operas, vegetable gardening, or Sunday mass.

To me, Burning Man is a particularly strong cocktail that combines many such antidotes — a "factory reset" that clears out the cruft of modern living. It's not the only such reset — a week hiking in the mountains or a meditation retreat would achieve similar results. But it is a uniquely social and colorful experience, and one that I miss dearly.

On a good day, I can come within 20 seconds of my former high school 2k rowing record. I can still channel some essence of that reckless, teenage disregard for pain that a rowing sprint requires.

On a good day, I can come within a breath of the lightness I felt, biking across the playa my very first Burn. I can still channel some essence of that wide-eyed curiosity and unfettered freedom that Burning Man inspires.

It's not the same, of course, but it helps remind of who I once was. Who I am now. And who I want to be.