Temple of Time by David Best and the David Best Temple Crew

TEMPLE OF TIME A Reflection on Gratitude

There is always the need to carry on.

Marjorie Stoneman Douglas

After the pandemic, temples will no longer be burned, they will become community gardens.

David Best

The Temple of Time was designed by David Best and built with the David Best Temple Crew.

It opened to the communities of Coral Springs and Parkland, Florida on April 14, 2019, exactly one year after the shootings at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland.

These temples are made to be temporary, built to be burned, places where people who are feeling loss and grief can bring mementos- notes written in Sharpie pen, photographs, small memorials- knowing that they will burn with the structure. Fires are cathartic and have been part of ceremony in traditional cultures for thousands of years. I have always explained the burning of the temple, the fire itself, as a way to feel release, feel some closure. The sparks spinning upward are like whirling dervish angels ascending to heaven.

But the Temple of Time did not burn to completion. The fire department decided that the fire was becoming dangerous so they put it out. At the time it was a severe blow to all of us who had worked so hard to bring it to life, yet something important still occurred. A therapist working with us helped me understand it with this story: “I went to the circus the other night with my kids. We watched the trapeze artist fall into the net, climb back up, and continue their show. Evidently it was a missed catch, but we did not know it was a mistake. It was all still so miraculous to us. That is how it was for the people watching the temple burn tonight.”

There are two kinds of grief. That first type of grief is so much pain and anxiety, anxiety that can lead to panic attacks and depression. But there is another kind of grief that opens slowly, holds gratitude, and reveals itself over time. The temple is a place to learn how to grieve with gratitude, to get past the grief of anxiety and begin the transformation to a grief of gratitude.

You feel the love and beauty in the structure, but even more you feel the empathy and compassion of all the people who have arrived there and shared something of their grief. You feel the love and you feel the sorrow. Many in Coral Springs shared with me that they felt this love, this sorrow, and this gratitude.

The Temple of Time made an impact on a suffering community. As of this writing people love to gather at the site to eat lunch. It still feels significant.

This book is a work in progress. It is my personal account with the people I worked with and talked to from the community. I’ve built many Temples with David Best and this Temple Crew, but what happened here held so much meaning. I believe this is so important in our world right now. It is something amazingly hopeful and optimistic.

In the Afterward I share some design ideas and some interesting mycelium products to evolve the temple, rather than something that is burned but is instead biodegradable and is part of a regenerative landscape, and a sustainable community park.

Community Building through the Power of Art Working on the Power of Art has been an honor and unlike any other public art experience I (and my colleague, Aliza Schiff) have ever encountered. The Temple of Time was the first of the five projects for Inspiring Community Healing After Gun Violence: The Power of Art, funded by Bloomberg Philanthropies as part of the 2018 Public Art Challenge. The Power of Art was conceived of by the cities of Coral Springs, Parkland and the Coral Springs Museum of Art to bring residents together for socially-engaged artmaking, fostering creative agency in the community for individuals to work toward healing in the aftermath of the 2018 shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School.

David Best and the Temple crew rolled into town and created a place of giving and sharing that was warm and welcoming. Upon entering the site during construction, you were greeted with a big smile or a warm hug and immediately set to work in a productive and calm environment.

Neighbors showed up with food and free ice cream on a daily basis. It was a place where everyone had purpose and could share whatever was on their mind.

Once the Temple was completed, we asked the Media to give people space and allow them to be inside on their own. It became a place of mutual respect and was filled with the most painful and beautiful emotions and memories.

We selected the Power of Art projects specifically for the First Responders, family members directly affected by the shooting and everyone in the community who felt the impacts of the tragedy. What we quickly learned is that everyone came to the Temple where they were that day and brought with them whatever they were dealing with at the time, it may not even be related to the shooting. The Temple even became a place of mourning for me. I was working at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School with the Ladd Brothers on another one of the Power of Art projects on April 8, 2019. While there, in the art classroom, I received word that my father died. Upon leaving the school, I went directly to the Temple of Time and inscribed his name with my mother’s (she had passed two years before) on the Temple. It was then that I understood, even more deeply, how the Temple holds meaning and provides a place to leave an emotion behind.

On May 19, 2019, we gathered the community for the Temple Burn. More than 5,000 community members came to bear witness and release their feelings into the night sky. It was a beautiful spring Florida night with a very slight breeze. After beautiful speeches from the mayors of Coral Spring snd Parkland and David Best, several family members who had lost a child or loved one in the shooting helped to light the Temple. And, we watched it burn and felt its heat and listened to the crackling sounds anticipating a crash – which didn’t happen.

The wind had blown sparks into the crowd to the west and the fire chief ordered that the fire be distinguished. From where I was sitting, just east of the Temple, it was hard to understand.

We left the site that evening confused and concerned that the community would wake to see the burnt remains of the temple skeleton. By morning, the fire department and members of the Temple Crew worked together to remove every trace of the burn.

And, what I learned from the community was that they felt like the Temple was so strong, like them, it could not burn to the ground. #MSDStrong Thank you to David and Temple Crew for building with us and giving their time and healing love. And, even more thank you to Dave Washer for capturing and sharing these memories.

Emily Blumenfeld Power of Art Curator and Project Manager Via Partnership

Rebecca Carriero, Emily Blumenfeld, Stephanie Docker y, and Aliza Schiff Rebecca and Stephanie are with Bloomberg Philanthropies; Emily and Aliza helped write the grant and curated the artists

Eric and Wayne, temple crew

B E F O R E

A F T E R

Eric, Rachel and her wonderful mom

Dear Temple Crew When I first heard about this project I wasn’t sure what to expect.

All I knew was that a bunch of strangers were coming to my home and creating art that was supposed to erase the hurt a little.

I arrived at the build site about two weeks ago, having never used a saw, staple/nail gun or a level, and I definitely hadn’t heard the phrase DBS before.

In the past few weeks, you gave immeasurable amounts of patience, guidance, kindness and advice. I lost a lot of family in the past few years and last year was incredibly challenging.

I was searching for a way to find peace in this world. In the small time we spent together, you each shed some light on the path to finding peace.

Like everyone of those goddamn little pieces of wood that were glued into the floor boards and the alter, you have all given me a little piece of our hearts. I cannot thank you enough for the love and light you brought into my life and I truly hope to see you all again.

Thank you for your time and for what you gave to my community. I am forever grateful for this experience.

All of my love.

Rachel Schapiro-- volunteer

David Best

T h e Te m p l e o f T i m e C r e w

Maggie Best

Wayne

Jules

Gabe

Scott

Teresa

Greg

Valerie

Kelly

Stewart

Paul

Kelly

Ana

Boc

Dave

Paddy

Bill

Renu

This is not Keith London’s photo

Noah

Eric

Darren

Steve

Crow (RIP)

Some of the Temples by David Best and Temple Crew

Burning Man– Temple of Joy 2002

Temple of Honor 2003

Temple of Stars 2004

Temple of Forgiveness 2007

Katmandu Nepal 2017 (did not burn)

Point Reyes Station– Our Lady of the Harbor 2010 (did not burn)

Burning Man– Temple of Juno 2012

Burning Man– Temple of Grace 2014

Derry Ireland– Temple 2015

Burning Man Temple 2016

Washington DC, Smithsonian 2018 (did not burn)

Oakland Museum 2019 (did not burn)

Naming the Temple

We all felt it. But we didn’t yet know what this temple would say. Coral Springs called David and Maggie.

“We need a name for this temple. We thought Temple of Healing?”

Maggie and David called me. “You lost a daughter, you know the difficult feelings around the anniversary. What do you think of the name, Temple of Healing?”

I felt my reaction immediately. “No!” We can’t offer healing. We can’t tell, suggest, provide, advocate or propose how to grieve.

“Think about it, get back to us. We need an answer by today.”

I thought back to the temple we built in Ireland in 2015.

It was 45 years after the Troubles, but pain still festered in the hearts of a divided city.

A city with one of the highest suicide rates in Western Europe. The local bar was called Sandinos, artists and musicians hung there, we did too. Standing outside a man in his mid 40s challenged me: “You guys building that temple—what is it?” he demanded. Before I could answer he continued, “People come here every year, offering us their religions and ideals. Who are you to think you have the right to try to heal us?” He sounded angry and frustrated, maybe a little drunk.

“We are a group of artists,” I said trying to placate him. “Just a group of people, building a temple on top of that hill. We’re out here in the snow, sleet, rain, drizzle and mud, building this thing. It’s a gift, just a beautiful thing for your town, for you.” We had worked in the snow earlier that day he didn’t seem phased

Night of the Ireland burn

A night at Sandinos

The Lighting of Ireland Temple

“We’re all artists here! Look around these tables—musicians, poets, painters, actors. You don’t think we’re artists? I direct plays. You don’t know me. You don’t think we can take care of ourselves?”

The bar was loud. Outside on the street people smoked cigarettes, It was raining and the street lights made the scene black and white. He stared at me hard, resentful. I didn’t know what to say.

“Dude, I don’t really know that much. I know grief, I lost a daughter, a 20-year-old beautiful girl, an amazing artist. I’m here because of her. I’m not telling anyone how to grieve. Not you, not your friends. We’re offering something beautiful up there on the IRA hill. It’s there if you need it or want it. Come help us build it!

He softened a bit, but I could he had been triggered. He yelled “You watch your friend get murdered by the police and tell me about it!” then he stormed off into the black and white misty night. His friends seemed dismayed and one of them bought us a round of drinks.

“He’s really not like this, usually he’s good craque.”

Later in the evening, he returned and found me. I was nervous at first “I want to say I’m sorry for how I reacted to you,” he said.

“Hey, you don’t have to apologize, seriously no worries man.” I said.

“Still, I had no right to say…” he paused, unable to finish his sentence.

I began, “Honestly, it was my honor to hear you and feel what it means to live in your city; an honor that you told me those things…”

“Hey, let me buy you a pint mate” “Won’t say no to that.”

“Hey and something else... I’m very sorry for the loss of your daughter. Truly. Truly Bless you brother. I respect what you all are doin up there. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

I learned something that night that changed many things. Who are we to tell people how to heal?

So. Not Temple of Healing?

Temple of Hope?

Temple of Compassion?

Temple of Resource?

Temple of Unity?

The first year, the year of firsts, it is so easy to cause a reaction. Names that sound like they are offering a message can trigger a reaction as another message of false hope.

David Best suggests Temple of Time.

Soft, symbolic, meaningful; it doesn’t sound religious or pious, it can evolve with significance during the first-year anniversary of the murder of 14 children and three teachers, the wounding of 17 other children, and the two towns that are still in shock and have PTSD from February 14, 2018.

Temple of Time.

Some Trepidation David returned from his second meeting with the town, and brought with him the pressure that the town felt. He told a story about a woman who spoke to him after a talk and told him that she didn’t want the memory of her daughter to have anything to do with something that would be burned. She explained that her grandparents were burned by the Nazis and her sister was burned in a car crash when she was a child.

David came home reeling and concerned about how to move forward. He felt crushed. As he shared the story, we all felt the weight.

Would the families accept this temple? Would the Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High school students accept it? Would they see this as a resource for healing or would they see us as some kind of presumptuous Burning Man inspired artist group?

They asked us to come. So we made our plans and reservations.

We build temples at Burning Man and we build global temples. Here we bare no banners, we are not Burning Man. We are not the NRA. We do not take sides.

We have no agenda but to build and share a process and listen to stories and share ours. If someone asks a question, we answer thoughtfully. If someone doesn’t know how to use a tool, we teach considerately. Who knows what brings a person to help.

When we were invited to go the the Smithsonian, I was overjoyed. Washington, D.C., Smithsonian. I admit I was excited to tell people. I posted on social media, called my family and told my friends. But I felt so quiet about this build, about this project in Florida. It felt tender and vulnerable, not to be announced in the wrong context; even a small conversation out loud could butterfly effect this into something unreal. We didn’t know. I practiced no expectations, no agenda.

Temple mantra: We build this temple for one person.

I take a moment and think about how this will (hopefully) manifest. I try not to imagine conversations or dialogues—just smooth transitions of people arriving to help us build, allowing relationships to forge by friendship of building something significant together.

The first day no one shows up, just us. We sort our tools. We review materials. We scribe lines for post layouts and structural elements. We set up work stations. Then a few people arrive, a few kids come after school. Slowly gaining momentum. Each day a few more people arrive.

By the last day, there would be community all around. Supportive and connected. The last day would just be us, and as we opened the temple on February 14, there would be a wonderful flow of humanity arriving, to leave something, write something, or feel something at this temple that we built.

I Still Have PTSD Alice was one of the first volunteers to show up. She lived near the site and immediately showed us that the community was going to be very supportive. We crossed paths a few times acknowledging each other. There is work that we do gluing the drop outs of the intricately cut sheets of plywood onto new 4 x 8 sheets of plywood, as mosaic to be laid down as the floor.

Our conversation was that thing you do, Florida weather, how many temples have I built, what a pleasure to be working together… Alice in her sweet way wanted to invite our group over to her house for dinner one night. She had run out of glue so I volunteered to fill her bottle.

As I returned and handed her the full bottle a siren sounded in the distance and slowly got louder as it came closer. The louder the sound the more her she became lost. The bottle of glue slipped out of her hand. The siren got louder and her frozen eyes glazed over and stared past me as it drove past us. The ambulance turned at the intersection and the sound disappeared into the distance.

She was still frozen in mid sentence. I picked up the glue at her feet. Her eyes were red and glassy. She wasn’t shaking, but she didn’t seem solid. It took her a small moment to gather herself.

“I apologize,” she said, looking at me.

I didn’t understand exactly what was happening. “Apologize? You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“I still have PTSD, especially when I hear sirens,” she said rubbing her eyes as if to clear smoke. “On weekends it’s not so bad, as I know there is no school.”

“Ah, yes yes,” I said, trying to validate and hold a comforting space for her. I had no idea that this was how it felt to be living in this community a year later.

“That day Dash, that day. There were so many sirens, so much confusion. It was like that horrible sound would never stop. Each time you heard it you knew there was another child in it...” Her voice trails off.

“I’m going to give you a hug?” I said as a question, and opened my arms towards her.

“Yes. I could use one.”

We held the moment. I felt the presence of something significant. I understood the reason why we had come to Florida. It wasn’t just the families who had lost children. It was everyone.

Whatever trepidation I had arrived with had now been erased.

Working with Ray Ray wore a burgundy t-shirt with #MSDSTRONG on the front and the Marjorie Stoneman Douglas fierce eagle on the back. He was tentative when we met. I invited him to help me on a project. One thing I love about building the temple is that so many of the jobs are repetitive. Not that anyone loves repetition, but as we learn the process of something, it begins to make sense. We need 20 columns, there are four sides, there are frames, there are cuts, there are angles. Twenty times four times four times four equals 1,280. The first few go-arounds are daunting; finding dimensions, materials, fittings, tools, correct size screws, nails, staples, timberlocks. The first piece may take 20 minutes for two cuts.

Once you figure out the materials, tools and what the hell you’re trying to make, you start to see short cuts. You use a different way to cut, a new order, a template, a block; you cut four at once, you turn and stack and repeat. What begins as time consuming and pointless, slowly becomes a well-formed dance.

“Hi, my name is Dash.”

“I’m Ray,” he said, looking at his tennis shoes.

“You go to Stoneman Douglas?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, kinda been a tough year I guess?” I asked, trying not to pry.

“Yeah, pretty tough.”

“Let me guess how old you are.”

“Okay.”

“Hmm, not 13. Maybe 15…are you 15?”

“I’m 14,” Ray smiled. It was a good smile. He looked straight at me. The only thing I ever want to do with a young person is validate them. His smile made me smile. His eyes looked up.

“Ha ha, I knew it was 14! You act like you’re 15. What are you into?”

“Swimming.”

“I bet you’re good at it. I grew up surfing. I love swimming. Do you surf?”

“I wish!”

“What’s your stroke?”

“Butterfly.”

“Dude! You’re kidding, that’s awesome. That’s a tough stroke.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you good?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, but I swim with kids that are 15 and 16.”

“I can tell you’re good! No wonder I thought you were 15.”

We both laughed. The smallest bonding occurred. There was feeling in this moment that I felt accountable for. I knew he went through a great tragedy of epic proportions. I did not know his story, what he saw, who he lost or how he felt a year after the trauma. But it was not my place to know, or ask, or intrude. I lost a daughter ten years ago. People always want to know how she died.

What is that story. The only story in that moment, was the small laugh between us.

“Have you ever used a high-powered nailer or stapler connected to a compressor?” I held up one of the nail guns. They’re called nail guns but we decided that ‘nail guns’ was too reactive a term, so we call them nailers or staplers. It’s a good tool for a young kid. It’s easy to put in a staple that is strong enough to hold up the temple. Learning to build something with integrity, surrounded by a supportive crew, can be a life-affirming experience for a kid. I witnessed this during the temple build in Ireland. Kids who never worked before, arrived with nothing but attitude and lived off the dole. Yet by the end of our build, they transformed. It was a glimpse of what has the power to change the trajectory of a life. When you build, create, or do something you love, work is more than fun, it is meaningful. I handed Ray the stapler.

“Put these every 12 inches.”

After a while, Ray learned to use a stapler, framing gun, impact driver and skill saw. We moved in harmony, all smiles, and had a great rhythm. In our routine, we realized we had half of them done by the time we broke for lunch. Ray joined some of his friends. A young woman, midthirties, sat across from me with a plate of pasta and salad that Maggie prepared.

“Hi, I’m Alicia. I’m the art therapist for ShineMSD,” she said, smiling. “It’s so cool see you working with Ray.” She explained about the group and what they did. ShineMSD was created for the MSD kids to nurture healing through the Arts. Ray was in her group.

“Yeah, he’s an awesome kid. I really like working with him.”

She leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve never seen Ray so happy. He is all smiles today. I can’t believe it.”

“Well he is enjoying himself. I’m enjoying working with him. It’s kind of contagious.” I waved towards the build. Small groups of people formed around different projects. It was a beehive of activity. “Really, there is nothing else like this,” and I added not for the first time nor for the last, “Helping to heal others is a powerful way to help heal ourselves.”

Working with Briana After lunch, Ray and I worked together in step, right where we left off. The good feelings continued. David Best walked over with a young girl and said to her, “You can help here.”

He looked at me and I nodded.

“Of course!” I told them both.

“I’m Dash,” I told her.

“I’m Brianna,” she said so quietly I had to ask her again to get the pronunciation.

“Brianna,” she repeated glumly.”

“Brianna, got it,” I said. There was a little attitude, a small edge. I don’t need to name it, but I recognized it. I may not get a smile from Brianna.

“So how are you doing today, Brianna?”

“Alright I guess,” she said, still looking downward.

“Alright, just alright.” I said, trying to sound jokingly light. “I know ‘alright.’ Yesterday, I had to spend the entire day in my hotel room because I was too sick to work out here.

Yesterday, I was totally miserable! Snot all over, yuck! So today, I’m just alright too. I’m looking for ‘good,’ though. I’m going ‘miserable,’ ‘alright,’ ‘good,’ and then ‘great.’ First, let’s try to get to ‘good.’ ” I sounded like a camp counselor. Ray knew me well enough to recognize I was playing. Brianna looked a little stunned. I gave Ray a thumbs up, he gave me one back. I looked at Brianna and gave her a vigorous thumbs up and she grimaced and gave a half-hearted thumbs up. But it landed kind of sweetly, timidly, and it made me smile. “Awesome. That’s a good start!”

Ray and I had worked together for a few hours and I wanted to include Brianna in our project without making her feel uncomfortable.

“So here is the deal about working,” I began. I tell this story a lot to people who newly come on board. “Here is the trick to being a good worker. Watch what we do. See what tools we use, what materials we need, what screws or staples we use, what templates and pieces help hold or measure things. There will be a moment when the person you’re working with needs something, and as they are looking around you just reach forward and have it in your hand when they need it… that’s when you become part of the team.

That’s what makes a great worker. Watch, pay attention, and be ready. I’m a contractor back home and if I hire someone and they are this kind of person, believe me, I want them on my team! That’s a good employee.” That’s my pep talk.

We went back to work and Ray taught Brianna how to use the staplers and move pieces of plywood and framing. I cut three pieces of plywood into a shape that was the exact measurement of the frames. We used them to hold the frames in place. We used a more powerful framing nailer (nail gun). We had worked together for about an hour and were beginning to get our teamwork figured out. It was a rainy day, with periodic showers. A couple of times it rained so hard we covered our tools and found shelter. But the sky would clear, and we would uncover our tools and get back to work. I looked around for something I needed. I wasn’t sure what it was actually, I just looked around, a little disoriented.

A hand thrust forward. No spoken word. Just a hand thrust in front of my face, holding a piece of wet wood that we had used to space 2 x 4s. It was exactly what I needed. I didn’t even know what it was and then bam. I stared at this piece of wood in front of my eyes. I traced the hand back to elbow, shoulder, face, and smiling Brianna. A kind of pride in her eyes, a joy on her face.

In that moment it was so much more than a piece of wood she offered me. I took the template from her.

“Ha ha, yes! Perfect!” I turned towards Ray and he was smiling also. He saw it too. I can’t really explain this, but in that moment, I felt a swelling of emotion. It was raining hard and we were sopping wet, but it was not cold. The three of us were together. The temple was in the background, being made by friends and wonderful people of the community. The three of us had a moment and I felt so grateful. In that moment, I loosen some doubts about the build, about what we were there for, even my own grief for my daughter, my own awkward relationship to wisdom, insecurities, and fears. Because in that moment, I felt Brianna’s same feelings. Ray’s same feelings. It gave me goosebumps.

“Oh my god, I’m feeling so emotional.” The kids saw me tearing up. “So Brianna, how are you feeling now, still just alright?” We all laughed. She searched for the right word.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Yeah, me too. I might even say great.”

“Ray, how about you?”

“Great!” he said.

“Brianna?”

“Yeah, great.”

Her strong voice, her beaming smile, her good humor, even an inner sense of wonderful irony landed on all of us. I started to laugh, Ray started to laugh, Brianna looked at us and burst out into laughter. The rain started up again. Warm water. Through my laughter tears started rolling down my cheeks. I hold out my arms.

“I’ve got goose-bumps, I know I’m crying.... Brianna you’re perfect!”

We just kept laughing in the rain, and then slowly got back to work.

There was a temple to build.

The rain continued and so did we. Later, Brianna joined her mother under the tent to help make the parquet floors. During the build, she was one of the kids who always showed up after school, she loved being around. We didn’t work together on any other projects, but anytime I’d pass her way, I’d sneak up on her and ask…

“Hey Brianna, how are you today?”

She’d always answer deadpan, “Alright,” adding a late smile, ready for the next question.

“Just alright?”

She would answer, “Okay, good.”

“Not great?”

Then she’d look at me and tilt her head to the side a bit and say “Hmm, maybe…”

On February 13th, the final day before we finished the temple, I tapped Brianna on the shoulder and we recited our alright-to-good routine.

“I wonder,” I said, “if it goes miserable, alright, good and then great, what comes after great?”

I tried to sound perplexed and sincere. Brianna looked at me thoughtfully, paused, and then exclaimed in a loud strong voice, “MAGNIFICENT!”

Working with Ruthie and Joey David introduced me to a married couple, Ruthie and Joey.

“Here, you can help here!” David pointed at me and then walked briskly away.

Ruthie did most of the talking, infact she was kind of a nonstop talker “I’m the artist and he’s the builder. I’ll do projects around the house making napkin holders but if something breaks, well Joey’s a big help. Just the other day he.....” She kept talking and Joey looked bewildered at the description he was a builder.

We were busy on the last phase of construction, working with our heads down and pushing hard for the deadline. Sometimes it’s easier to push hard into the project, rather than take time to teach a person how to use a tool and align them with the task at hand.

I was already impatient, feeling the stress to finish on time. I gave them what I thought were clear instructions and pointed to the tool trailer. They both immediately took off in opposite directions. Their faces were pink and sweaty they looked hot and uncomfortable. Their clothes were loud, even by Florida standards. Joey didn’t know tools and Ruthie kept a running chatter going. I was getting frustrated. I was getting judgmental, impatient looking for a way to get them to a different area. I was just about to say something that would sound mean.

Suddenly out of nowhere a feeling of compassion grabbed me. I mean grabbed me like I was a little kid caught shop lifting. Suddenly, I became interested in who they were and why we were working together.

Instead of trying to escape I saw two innocent, confused humans. “Hey, let’s stop for a second. Do you have any kids?”

“We have a son,” Ruthie spoke up. “He’s one of the lucky ones at least he’s still alive,” she quickly added.

“Oh my god, How’s he doing?” I asked.

“Well, actually, not well. He wasn’t shot, but he was talking to a girl that he liked and as she turned to walk away, he watched her....” She looses her voice for a moment, I can tell she is seeing what he saw, the image.... “He watched her get shot right in front of him. He ran for cover. It was in the hallway where the heaviest carnage took place. He hasn’t been well. He hasn’t been able to return to school this year. Lots of kids haven’t.”

“Oh my god,” I said again. “I’m not sure I’d call him lucky. Oh my god I’m so sorry. How are you two doing?”

“I’m okay, but truthfully, Joey’s not doing so well.”

I looked over at Joey. His face was now redder than before and now sweat literally dripping off his forehead. He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. Ruthie saw how Joey was looking and whispered something as if Joey wasn’t there. “Joey has PTSD.”

Joey looked up at me. Took one breath and started to sob and then caught himself on his 3rd or 4th breath. He spoke through the emotions. “I wanted to know what our son saw. The police showed me the film they have of the hallway. I wish I didn’t see it, I mean I felt I needed to see it. But now I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. I can’t even talk about how horrible it was. Bodies everywhere.” His voice trails off.

Our attitudes changed. we were putting up railing around the outside. I found two other volunteers and made a group of four to finish. They worked the rest of the afternoon on something that might have taken Crowe less than an hour by himself.

It didn’t matter, they were had gotten in a groove and everyone on that team was smiling. It did not matter that the next day I went around and repaired everything they did. It felt good to know they had helped.

Gold Leaf

by Julia Belson-Gal

All of our crew members have career specialties and life skills in which they excel. In his working life, Bac is an expert craftsman who does high-end faux finishes in homes of Bay-Area legends.

When he comes to work on Temples, he teaches us how to gold leaf, which is something David loves to add to the spires and elements around the Temples. It’s time consuming, expensive, detail-oriented, physically stunning, but most importantly, it shows people how much we car Bac, who came to the United States on a boat from Vietnam at age 15, was raised in Sandwich, Cape Cod—a place settled in 1620 by the Pilgrims. It’s a place I also love and one we connect over.

Bac regularly works alone, doing incredibly detailed work with expensive materials and little room to make mistakes. Because of the focus needed, he prefers quiet. When we did gold leaf for the Temple of Time, there was blowing wind and pouring rain; a stressful situation to say the least.

We parked vans around our tent to baffle the wind, and David blocked off our area so we weren’t interrupted. We needed to concentrate.

But soon, a few crew members, and their families, and then hard-working volunteers and curiosity seekers started to drift over. How could we not let them help? How could I not engage in conversation? Wasn’t this why we were here? It was hard to concentrate with the distraction, but gold leafing happened, in a messy, imperfect, let’s-make-thiswork, kind of way. It was a reminder that we weren’t here to demonstrate our abilities, we were here to share. While I guided volunteers in and out of our tent, making sure a variety of people had a chance at this experience, Bac began to teach. It was wonderful to see him share his expertise and to see how excited volunteers were to be a part of this process. I asked someone what his favorite thing was to do was, and he excitedly told me scuba diving! I asked if he ever explored wrecks, which I knew took special training.

He lit up and told me he was taking that class the next weekend. And so a discussion began, about apparatus, ways to prevent the benz and where he wanted to dive in the future.

Later, someone told me that he had just taken his first diving class that weekend. Someone else mentioned how terribly sad he looked. I don’t know if that was just the beginning of his diving exploration, but I know that he was excited about it. I also can’t possibly know how sad he was, but I witnessed a teenager who had been through great trauma, who was engaging in life and exploring new worlds. To sit together, telling stories about the underwater world, brushing gold leaf on glittering spires—one to memorialize his friend and 16 more to remember the others who were killed—was why we were here. I love that David has the foresight to know the importance of gold leaf, in both its beauty and its process, and understands that bringing out Bac, with all his expertise, makes our crew whole. Ultimately, I’m so glad we work with and learn from our friend Bac.

The First Time I’ve Smiled in a Year I came to lunch late. David was sitting next to someone who had arrived earlier that day.

We had spoken briefly our about her son, who graduated last year, and about colleges in California. She had also called him one of the lucky ones.

She said to David, “I have not smiled in a year. This is the first time. I am smiling so much that I am scared my jaw is going to be sore tonight.”

There are so many smiles in a day. You can’t take that for granted!

Dave meet Mitch “You both have tattoos for similar reasons,” David pauses, looking at us. “You should meet one another. Dave meet Mitch, Mitch meet Dave.” He touches both our shoulders with a squeeze and then disappears, off to someone else, or an interview, or some particular element that needs his blessing or rework vision.

Behind us is the temple. Ornate, statuesque, shining like a beacon in the afternoon light. Mitch, his wife, Annika, and their son, Alex, are standing in front of me. A small awkward silence ensues. Alex turns 16 today. Alex was at Stoneman Douglas that day. Alex had been wounded by a bullet to his head. Today was his sixteenth birthday. Tomorrow, February 14th would be the anniversary of the murder of his older brother, Nick.

Mitch introduced himself with a firm handshake. His voice had a youthful quality, a kind of optimism hidden between his words, but I already knew his story, the one we share with our tattoos, so I also knew that the lilting positivity is also a practiced cadence to keep strangers at a distance. It is a voice that says, “I am strong, don’t grieve for me. I’ll be okay. Now I’ll just be on my way.”

Ana sees us and greets Mitch with what is meant to be a friendly gesture, something to break the ice. She asks with kindness: “Hey Mitch, what do you think of the temple?”

I felt my heart drop. Such simple words. Yet the complexity of his grief and his feelings in this moment cannot be fathomed by words and I see his heart drop at the same moment. This brave man, husband, father, stands speechless. He appears stalwart, athletic stance, sport shirt, fit body, short, clean haircut. I have known him for one minute as the question lingers unanswered. There is too much information to gather and process, information that the human heart and body cannot assimilate.

What is it to grieve for a son who was murdered among 16 others, how this unsettled reality, one day from a year, could possibly be understood, possibly be articulate, observed, illustrated with failing words.

He stuttered. The practiced voice hesitated. Words stumbled out like ancient pebbles that land with no sound. The sentences that were uttered to make people feel at ease and validated faltered, sadness coating his words.

“Yes, yes, I guess. It is beautiful. I guess I’m not sure, I don’t really know what to say, yes it is great. We are so grateful. Yes, thank you, thank you.”

His wife stared blankly, his son looked hot and is looking for shade for their dog. He was here to protect them. I put my hand around his shoulder and guide us into a circle and whisper, “I know what just happened.”

Mitch suddenly looks exhausted.

“I know, I know,” I say. “I want to say I’m sorry. I know how people do not understand, how they say I’m sorry and cry and pat your shoulder and ask your opinion about the temple. I know the paper bag with two slits for eyes you have to wear to exist. How great your grief is, but how you have to help heal the others before yourself.”

He looked at me, his eyes bright. There were emotions, almost tears beginning to form. He looked to his wife for acknowledgment. It was hot and Alex was hungry. There was food by the shade structure and his wife and son excused themselves. Mitch showed me his tattoo. A swimmer in full stroke, showing grace and strength.

Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School was where the children and parents took a stand. A political one. The kids spoke up. Mitch is one of the parents who spoke to the president, spoke on 60 Minutes, and spoke to a room filled with the Senate, the president, and intimidating, dark-suited lawyers. He’s a badass, but he is also friendly and incredibly humble.

“It’s true, we have to hide our feelings,” Mitch said.

“There is no place to go,” I said.

“No there isn’t.”

“There is no church, no service, no words, not a place at the right hand side of God.” “No, I’m still numb,” Mitch says.

Annika returns to ask Mitch for the keys, but hears our conversation. “Well, I’m angry!” Annika shouted. “It’s all bullshit. There is nothing to believe in.” She looked at Mitch for some kind of reassurance and then leaves to find her 16 year old living son.

It was a hot day. Clouds moved in circles with constant change all around us.

Mitch and I kept talking. As we stood facing each other, a strange thing happened.

We shared stories about Phoebe and Nick. What kind of people they were. That special light in a person that wherever they go people notice something. I tell him about Phoebe’s art Mitch tells me about what a great swimmer Nick was, practicing for the Olympics. He was shot while trying to push a filing cabinet to protect his friends.

“Silly really, thinking that would protect them, those bullets are made to go through metal and then when they hit the human body they spin and tear up their insides. He was that kind of person to always put the other person first. I’m so proud of him.”

“He’s a brilliant light, I can see that.”

“And so is your Phoebe.”

I began to feel the goosebumps traveling up my arm. We are facing each other. The next thing I am going to try to explain has had a lasting affect on me. In some ways it has changed my life. We are both standing not saying a word. The goosebumps start to change into something else, heat begins to radiate. My arms stiffened and the heat feels like a kind of electrical force, a charge, a vibration and it begins to circle around both our bodies.

My feet are on the ground, but my body feels weightless as if perhaps defying all logic my feet are not touching. It is as if we are two magnets flipped into opposing fields and both our bodies feel suspended. An unexplainable force is holding us frozen. To this day I have never felt anything like this.

Dash, Mitch and Eric at Burning Man

I break the spell first and exclaim, “Dude! Are you feeling this?”

“What the hell is happening here Dave?”

“I can’t explain this.” I shrug, I don’t want to explain it. I’m not sure Mitch will believe me.

“I think Phoebe and Nick are here,” he says as if he is reading my mind.

“Yes, they are both here. This is so powerful.” There is no doubt in my mind. This is a moment that has made us close friends for life. It is a moment I honor and I will never forget.

This temple and the power of healing through these moments of gratitude, love, kindness and generosity can not be explained. This was a life changing moment as I saw, felt, experienced, that there is more going on than just building something. Building a temple is simple, yet the experience is beyond calculation or comparison.

Mitch and I have become very close friends in the year that has followed. We all worked together and burning man found a ticket for Mitch. He stayed at 1st camp, but we spent a lot of time together. Whatever force we shared in that moment in Florida seems to follow us around on the Playa. We made a lot of people cry out there in the desert. Mitch opens a lot of hearts. He is on the forefront of gun control and trying to stop the insane violence. His stories can bring you to your knees.

My son Henry and some of his friends were staying with us in my camp. These young adults would listen to Mitch explain in delicate and precise detail what it was like to witness this horror and then deal with the government, the president the lawyers the CIA. Mitch is that story that is the original source. It is the story that has not been filtered nor sanitized or sensationalized through news or social media. I watched my son and these young people who I care deeply about spin in rage and confusion over what goes on in our country. Listening to Mitch they were silent, in awe, asking penetrating questions, and overwhelmed often with tears.

This is Mitch Dworet, he makes a difference and he has changed my life.

Dash and Eric, we’re so tired. A 14 hour day, but our last day. We both share something that we wish on no other, but it has bonded us with the closest friendship imaginable. Our two daughters are both spirits. We love and support each other.

Sometimes we choose our family sometimes the family chooses us. Here we are bone tired, so relaxed. There is not a thought in these bodies.

Only goodness and gratitude.. s.

Only exhausted satisfaction....

This man Stephen Crowe!

A year after this photo was taken, Our friend and fellow builder left this earth. His death was a shock to us all. We build these temples to offer a small doorway towards gratitude. Crowe was a force with a tool in his hand. He worked fast and efficiently, and he worked with joy and love and treated everyone he met with kindness and generosity.

Crowe was a warrior, and he is the significant reminder of how much love there is between us, this family of Temple Crew, who show up and build with kindness and generosity. He will always be a part of this family, a reminder of how blessed we are to have each other, to have each other’s back, to hold a ladder or hold a wounded heart.

You will be missed. Rest in Peace. Your legacy lives on!!!

The First Responders The police and the firefighters of Coral Springs showed up. They were the strong core of the town. Yet after the murders the year before, they are humbled. Vulnerable men and women.

A police officer apologizes to me.“We would have been here to help y’all build, but one of our men’s son committed suicide last week and we had that and other funerals to attend.”

They arrived and I felt the camaraderie between them. They appeared grateful to be here and proud to staple their badges to the altar.

The first responders carried more than they ever received credit for. In that moment, I felt their sadness and wounded hearts with respect.

So what is Magic?

This is Noa, a shining young human. We crossed paths many times during construction. We are in the final stages of the build. There is a surprising, relaxed feel in the late afternoon. She is with a friend and she introduces her to me.

“Hi, this is my friend Sara,” she says.

It is a delightful moment. We are so close to finishing the build. The afternoon rains have come and gone and there is a wonderful golden light. The temple is glowing, you can truly feel something magnificent shining through the shadows.

I welcome them. “Lets go to my office and have a chat,” I say laughing, and gesture the way towards the south eastern corner where the sun has a certain angle and the light reveals all the beauty of the intricate shapes of the temple. The wet wood is reflective. I have stood here often just to marvel at what is happening during this build.

“How cool is this?” I say.

“Oh my god, it is amazing, I had no idea it would be like this!” Noa exclaims. “I can’t believe you all made this. Is this what you do?”

“Ha ha, I wish,” I laugh. “No I have a another job that pays the bills. We all volunteer to come out here and do this. I’m a landscape contractor, I design and build beautiful gardens back home.”

“Oh, that’s cool too! I’m still sorting out what I want to do.” Noa looks at me, smiling.

“Hmm,” I say thoughtfully striking an exaggerated pose of deep consideration. “I can see your future.”

“Oh really!” she says back playfully. “What do you see then?”

“Yes, yes, I see a photographer in you, but also a journalist. I see you writing and taking amazing photographs. I see you as an artist also. You’re inquisitive and thoughtful. You’ll see things in people that no one else sees and you will have these amazing tools to create them.”

“Oh wow! That’s crazy, I’m so interested in all those things! Oh, thank you for saying all those nice things.” Noa is good, it’s easy to see that. I smile.

“Do Sara, what is Sara going to do for a job?”

Sara has been silent since we met. I can feel that Noa has brought her here. I don’t ask personal questions, the PTSD, the anxiety of loss and grief, is palatable. This is all I need to know. I do not know Sara and Noa’s stories. I can tell that Sara is shy and that her shyness holds some trauma.

“Hmm,” I strike my pose again. “Sara I see you as a chef, I see you as someone who will love to learn about food. Not just how to cook it, but how it is grown, where it comes from, the soil and the amazing people who are growing it. You will know the farmers and your kitchen will make amazing fresh delicious food.”

Sara smiles for the first time. She is quiet but looks happy with her future vocation. Noa chimes in. “Sara you love cooking.”

“Yeah, I do….” Her voice trails off. I’m not sure what happens next. She mentions something about a classroom to Noa. I’m thinking it has something to do with our conversation but I’m outside of this. They are whispering. Suddenly Sara begins to cry. Her cheeks become rosy pink and tears emerge. As her emotions grow she become embarrassed and tries to fight off the feelings. Noa reaches out to touch her shoulder, lovingly. Such a good friend.

I know this moment. In my own journey through loss and grief I have sat with many people in these places of emotions. “Hey Sara,” I say kindly. “It’s okay to cry. It is a beautiful thing to let these tears emerge. Your feelings are so strong, you feel so much. That is such a good thing.

Don’t be afraid of this. Drop into what you’re feeling. If you go deep enough you will see that these tears are about love. You love so much. Someone you care about, someone or something you miss. So much love right now.”

Noa steps up. “Yeah, Sara, he’s right, you do have so much love.” Sara’s breathing begins to calm. Noa is holding her shoulders.

“This is why we build this temple. Just for this moment. That is why we’re here in this corner.

This is why you’re here. We built this for you.”

We are silent. Noa strokes her friend’s hair. We all step back and quietly feel the moment. I get goosebumps (again.)

“I have goosebumps,” I say.

“Hey, I do too,” says Noa.

Photo by Noa

And like a yawn that is contagious, Sara finally says.“Oh my god! I do too!” Somehow that makes us all laugh.

We’re all silent for a few moments. Out of the blue Noa takes a big breath and asks, “So what is magic?”

I don’t remember ever talking about magic. But every day during the build, I felt something beyond my comprehension. Maybe Noa is a mind reader, or maybe I talked about it and she overheard me. Goosebumps that feel like electricity are happening all the time.

“Sometimes it’s something that is so beautiful and surprising, it is too impossible to explain.

How did this happen?” I paused. “Most people think magic is some big thing. Magic can be so small. That moment a few minutes ago is magic. You could feel it. Things line up and something happens we can’t explain. Like this behind me, every time I look at the sky there is a cloud formation with a hole in it!” I turned around and there were back-lit clouds with a large hole in the center. I laugh and Noa and Sara see the cloud with a large hole in its center with sun rays shining through like some biblical moment. “Magic is that thing that shows up that is just too impossible to explain with words, It might happen all the time if you cast it out over a 1000 years and there are 1000s of explanations, but there is a faith that holds that there is something else that is offering these gifts. They are inspirations to help us get through something.

I believe in that kind of magic. Phoebe taught me this.”

The sky behind us is illuminated. Breathtaking. Sara begins to cry again. “I’m okay,” she says, “this is so beautiful. Thank you.”

Suddenly the light shifts. Someone calls my name.

“Hey before we go. If you think back on this time we’ve just shared, pause for a moment, take a deep breath. Remember this feeling. It’s called gratitude. Those are some good tears. Remember to breathe. Feel some goosebumps. Remember what magic is. You are both such significant humans, remember that! We had some magic here.”

Noa asks to take my picture. Tomorrow we open the temple to the public.

A sigh of relief as we finish in time February 13th, 2019

The opening to the community February 14th, 2019

Opening Day

We are finished building and we release her to the community. For all the work and planning this is that moment. In some respects it is just wood supports and decorative plywood layered together in intricate patterns. In another way it feels like magic. Each person walks in and feels something akin to joy. Wonder. It is this moment that the temple no longer belongs to those who built it but is complete and stalwart for all those who enter. It was built for you.

This is where the magic really happens. It is impossible to quantify the process of healing.

Healing is a quiet, very personal thing, always different, always unique.

Briana introduces me to a secret friend

We built The Temple of Time on time. It often seems like a miracle that we complete this vision of art, yet we always do (knock on wood.) The opening is remarkable and endearing.

There is a steady influx all day. I sit on a bench outside and watch the flow of people walk into the temple. They stand, take a breath look around, look up, look close.

You can feel each person have their own private moment.

In Florida we may have a person who sees this temple and has passionate beliefs about the destructive role guns play in our society, and the person right next to them passionately supports the NRA. Here, there is no moral judgment. No matter where you fall on the political spectrum, here it is about one thing. Feeling the pain of the community, the devastation of the parents, and the grief over the loss of 17 amazing and brilliant lights.

In just a few hours it has already began to fill up with people. The light that shines through the intricate lattice makes the inside feel cool and comforting.

While we were there for a few hours in the morning, I received a message that Brianna’s mother tried to get in touch with me. Brianna was disappointed that she didn’t see me on the opening for the anniversary and asked if it was possible to get together before we returned to the west coast. David Best and the crew (myself included) had made plans to go to the beach, soak in the ocean and have a restorative lunch before taking the van back to the airport. I said I would love to meet them. Brianna’s mother added that Brianna had a special friend she wanted me to meet. I could find my own way to the airport. I’ve seen the beach.

At the temple, I watched the crowds move quietly around the space. Writing, reading, contemplating...

Brianna walked up with a stroller. We hugged and she showed me her bunny, Rosco. We held it. We didn’t talk about much. It was nice to share the moments together. Her mother was on a phone call and let Brianna have this private time with me and Rosco. Brianna asked if I wanted to hold Rosco. I felt honored. I taught her how to use power tools; she taught me

how to hold this small, soft, furry animal. The light filtering through the temple was soft and heavenly. People approached to meet Rosco. A crowd gathered. I gave Rosco back to Brianna. I watched her stand in the temple, a small piece of ownership and pride. Grandparents, mothers and fathers, kids from the high school, are gathered around her and the bunny.

There are many places on this planet that are beautiful, but few are as soft and real as a small animal and a young girl offering love and healing by just being who they are.

3 Months later we return to Florida to burn the temple May 19, 2019

Returning to Burn the Temple of Time Sunday at 3:45 pm I land at the Fort Lauderdale Airport. I’m walking briskly, no time to spare to get to the temple, it closes to the public at 5:00 and burns at 7:30. My knee aches and I’m limping, the pain is almost unbearable. I have bad knees anyway, and I have been busy, but it didn’t help that I tripped on a pallet and pitched forward off the edge of my dump truck, landing on my left knee with all my weight. It didn’t help that a dear friend of mine had just died of cancer a few days earlier. It didn’t help that I had been up Friday and Saturday helping with and celebrating my brother’s wedding. I’m arriving emotionally spent, hungover, and with just a few hours of sleep the last four days. Better to show up late and delirious than not at all. I wonder if that is actually true as I limp along, trying hard not to grimace and sweat.

I arrive at the site at 4:55. Volunteers in the area are asking the last few visitors to leave. A good sized crowd has already gathered around the outside perimeter where a small chain link fence has been put up. The temple has weathered surprisingly well. Rain most days has grayed and mildewed it a bit, but the pieces of memories, words, and photographs have taken on a life of their own and in this late afternoon light The Temple of Time has a shining presence. I sit in my corner taking a few deep breaths, a few photographs, and mental notes. There is no physical poetry more poignant or touching than entering one of these temples after everyone has been asked to leave and standing alone as a witness to such gratitude within grief.

There are questions that are always asked by us builders on the day of a temple burn. Will the weather behave? Will the temple ignite too slowly or too fast? Will it burn quickly but not get out of control? Will it burn in a kind of triumph and beauty that will match the sweet power of its gift to the community? Will there be some closure and release for the families and community that have gathered here? But there is another question: Will the fire department on site understand how this works? How will they react to a fire of this magnitude when all their equipment is standing by and their training is to put fires out?

I find my crew. David Best asks me to be a one of the four who will be at the lighting to support whatever comes up. I have had the honor (albeit the tragic honor) of lighting one of our temples. I understand the privilege of holding the flame and touching a corner of this building with thousands of people watching, emotionally involved. The huge silence that looms around the site. A kind of anticipation, a feeling of being bonded together through this journey of grief.

I know the emotions it can trigger, the vast sense of loss and sadness. It is a privilege to hold this flame, but the reasons for holding it are so sad and tragic and that can’t be forgotten. I also

know that after the torches have lit the kerosene containers in each corner it gets hot fast, real hot, real fast, and you find yourself walking away much more quickly than you might imagine.

Yes, it’s a good idea to have people there who know what emotional and logistic things could happen.

We are asked to gather at the perimeter between the temple and the fence. The fire chief explains the details of how the burn will take place. He says that they believe the fire will take approximately 20 minutes to burn. I think to myself, this fire is going to take longer than 20 minutes to burn. First red flag. He says they will take all precautions and if the fire takes too long or shows any signs of getting out of control they will put it out. Second red flag. He introduces a colleague, “This is James Wright. He has only one job and that is to judge if the fire is under control or not. If he says the fire is out of control I will signal immediately signal to put it out without any questions.” Third red flag. James Wright steps forward and introduces himself. My impression is a good fireman but we would never drink a beer together. Fourth red flag. When the fire chief calls the people who will hold the torches for lighting the temple, he denies entrance to those of us who were to support them. Fifth red flag.

The moment arrives when the temple bursts into full flame. It is a transformational experience.

The temple was made of structural lumber and intricate cnc-cut plywood, and in the time

since completion has been filled with prayers, tears, memories, artifacts, photos, and thousands of names and words. The flames engulfed the entire structure.

The patterns within the intricate designs were outlined by flames, glowing orange-gold against smoldering black, a stark image of flame and darkness. Smoke swirled upward, spiraling towards the heavens. Ignited embers glowed, dancing upwards in patterns against a dark sky, iridescent and alive. I pictured each name as an ember turned angel, released into a transcendental ballet towards a heaven I can only dream about. No matter who you are, or what you believe, this spectacle, this final, fiery part of the temple’s existence, is mesmerizing, inspiring, and connects everyone who is there to experience it.

And it is magnificent. Temple of Time was not too big and not too small, grand and intimate at the same time. It was tender enough to speak to each person as an individual and strong enough to hold us all as a group. I felt how much this community needed the moment. I knew how deeply my new friends were ready to feel the magic of the temple burn, dreaming of closure and release from the PTSD hell they endured this year. I felt the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs.’ I heard the fire crackle and pop as the temple burned bright.

There were two ladder fire trucks and hoses arcing into the air like poetic parenthesis, reminding us they were there for our safety, to keep the sparks from igniting anything, wetting the grass and the space around the temple burn area. The fire had been raging in its full glory for 20 minutes. I expected the spire to collapse any second.

The burn happens in stages. The spire is the first thing to collapse. Sometimes it leans to one side, sometimes it does a small curtsy and twists, and sometimes it falls straight down the center. It is the first signal that the temple has been engulfed and fire is going to win the battle of impermanence. In that first moment everyone simultaneously gasps, the sound is breathtaking, and everyone feels something profound in their bodies. All hearts and voices collectively release something in that moment.

I filmed the flames. I had already decided that I wanted to create a book to commemorate this Temple of Time in Coral Springs/Parkland Florida. I anticipated the spire’s collapse at any moment. I looked at the time—three minutes and counting. Any moment. I could feel it. A tension in the air. I didn’t breathe. Nor the person next to me. Four minutes and counting. Five…

Then I noticed a shift in the angle of the hoses. They were no longer aimed at the perimeter with an arcing, protective spray. The hoses had been funneled into a blasting force and directed at the temple, specifically at the spire. Sparks extinguished, flames diminished, with tragic suddenness the golden glow turned to a cloud of gray smoke billowing from black charcoal structural wood. It was like watching a movie where the reel suddenly stops and you watch the celluloid melt and then turn to utter darkness and silence.

The Coral Springs Fire Department put out the fire.

I was speechless and disoriented. My friends next to me were speechless.

The firefighters were on a mission; now every action was purposeful. The high-power hoses moved in closer to collapse the charcoaled skeleton. It was still sturdy and fought to stand, stalwart. I could tell this would to take them the rest of the night to clean up.

The crowd dispersed. The temple crew gathered together. We were shocked and speechless, but tried to not be bitter.

Someone shouted in an angry voice, “That is such bullshit!”

Someone tried to be reasonable, “I guess that is just the fire department doing their job. They must have seen something we didn’t.”

Someone said as if they knew something “I know they had an agenda to not let it burn from the beginning.”

Most of us just shook our heads with a silent look of dismay and confusion.

Greg Watson always known for his hard work and good humor put it in perspective, “I’d guess we can just call it burnus-interuptus.” That broke the spell. We all laughed at that.

Better to laugh and put disappointment down for a while. Exhaustion is never a good place to find clarity. We worked hard. We did our best.

Maggie reminded us that dinner was being served at an Italian restaurant a few blocks away.

Some drove, some walked. My knee ached and I was confused about how I felt. I sat down and told everyone I would meet them there. Too tired, too distraught, too confused. I sat on a bench on watched the Fire department put their water cannon on the spire and commence into leveling the site. I finally left to meet my crew for dinner.

You forget how long the blocks are in the strip malls of Florida. I’ve had time to think.

Sometimes in the hardest lessons you find the greatest truths.

Most of us just shook our heads with a silent look of dismay

Afterward

Some inspirations on how to move forward after the Pandemic.

How do we build a Temple that will not burn, but instead becomes a community garden?

How do we have the temple be sustainable and regenerative?

What kind of materials do we use?

I’d like to share a few ideas that I have been working with, brilliant people I have met and have given me new kind of materials that I believe can change the world.

The temple is a profound place to help people lay down that grief of anxiety and find love and hope along with the deep sorrow.

These tears are different, they are from your spirit with the first glimmer of gratitude.

And then what about our smiling, aching planet? where a cracked and weedy asphalt parking lot, or an old forgotten and toxic land fill is turned into something growing and living and attracting wonderful insects and birds, something miraculous.

If the planet can do it, you can.

The monarch butterfly survives and thrives in milkweed. It lays eggs here and hatches as the caterpillar, it is where the caterpillar grows and can only nourish on the milkweed leaves, when fat enough turns into the chrysalis, the body completely dissolves into the nothingness of mucus and only then metamorphosis occurs, the chrysalis becomes translucent and the Monarch butterfly emerges– slowly moving its wings in front of the 4 year old child and then flies away on it epic 1000 mile migration. In the story of the monarch butterfly, the temple is milkweed, food for the transformational process. It is not romantic, magical thinking to see this arrival from the rubble and be overwhelmed with hope and gratitude.

When we see that the earth can heal itself with our smallest actions, we are inspired. Mycelium and milkweed are poetic reinforcements to a new path.

Healing the planet and our relationship to it is as important as healing our hearts.

The temple will contain that message. In helping to heal others, including mother earth, is the best way to heal ourselves. It starts with this wondrous young age of exploration and filtering hope and life, love and gratitude... the metamorphosis of a butterfly might be all you need to believe when you are two years old... and 30 years later when facing a life choice.

We remade Jenny Miller’s Garden Day Preschool so she could open during the pandemic.

We planted 1” high milkweed in early July– here it is 3 months later

Current work in progress by out team at Art Gardens Landscape

Crow’s Keep I found a dead Crow at the base of the hill I did not know it then but my fellow temple builder and friend died that same day.

His name was Stephen Crowe, but we all knew him as Crow.

The significance was quite clear to me So I made this place to enshrine this feathered gift as I dug and moved gravel and dirt I uncovered an old rusty trowel....

I heard a voice that says you are here to build this.

There was nothing here, just mulch from tree cutters, trash from homeless.

Not one of these plants or stones existed.

We brought 100 yards of dirt, trees, plants, ancient redwood, boulders, leftover rubble, subterranean irrigation for wild flowers and grasses a place to sit, a place for ceremony, your temple....

Rest in Peace dear friend this place and book are dedicated to your memory

Some of the Purple Aster filled with wild bees at NYC Highline

T E M P L E

OF

PA R K L A N D & C O R A L S P R I N G S F L O R I DA

photos and words

by Dash

TI ME

•

MSD STRONG