The Sword!

There’s a certain undeniable magic that seems to shroud many of the experiences I have had in the niche world of electronic music, the most of which occur during festivals. I like to think that it's the collaborative playfulness of everyone who attends these festivals who create the space and opportunity for such enchanting occurrences to play out. In 2022, a group a 20+ friends and I attended Sonic Bloom and collectively created a little piece of magic that we revelled in the whole weekend…

It was a familiar chaos, the kind that felt both energizing and comforting. The pulsing beats emanating from multiple stages echoed from every corner of Hummingbird Ranch, as thousands of brightly dressed souls danced, spun, and laughed beneath the canopy of trees and lights. Our group, a dynamic collection of over 20 people, was scattered across the vast grounds, each of us heading in different directions to catch our favorite artists and explore new stages. But through it all, there was one constant, one glowing beacon that never failed to bring us back together: the little light-up Minecraft sword.

Throughout the weekend, it was impossible to stay together for long. We’d lose each other in the endless crowd or get distracted by the hypnotic lights of another stage. But no matter where we ended up, no matter how far apart we strayed, the sword would find us again. Someone, somewhere in our crew, would hold it high above their head, a tiny beacon cutting through the pandemonium. And within seconds, the magic would begin.

Like moths to a flame, we would be drawn back together. The first few times, it was accidental, a happy coincidence. But after that, it became a ritual. When one of us would lose track of the group, one would simply search the crowd for a flash of light, and the Minecraft sword would appear, a tiny, glowing miracle in the dark. The moments of reunion became something like a celebration—cheers and hugs would erupt, and as our friends filtered in, one by one, we would hail the sword, jokingly crediting it with some kind of mystical power.

“It’s magic, I swear,” someone would shout, laughing as they arrived at the base of the sword's glow. “I knew I’d find you guys. The sword always calls me home!”

There was a moment of awe each time we reunited. For all the immense chaos surrounding us—thousands of people, pulsating lights, and music vibrating through our bones—there was a small, perfect calm when we were all together again. The sword had become more than just a way to find each other; it was a symbol of our bond, our collective energy. It became the heartbeat of our group, a constant amidst the swirl of everything else.

As we moved between stages, chasing different sets, the sword stayed with us, always a few feet ahead or just behind, leading the way through the crowds. At one point, we lost track of it entirely in a throng of people near the Treehouse Stage. But sure enough, moments later, it reappeared, glowing brightly, held high by a friend who had been deep in a different crowd, but somehow always in the right place at the right time. The sword had called them to us.

By the end of the weekend, it wasn’t just a joke anymore. The sword wasn’t just a glowing plastic toy—it was a symbol of how we, as a group, always found our way back to each other. Whether it was the magic of the sword or something deeper, something woven into the fabric of our friendship, we had never felt more connected. No matter how many times we lost each other in the sea of lights and sound, we always knew one thing: the sword would find us. And when it did, we would be whole again, reunited by a simple, glowing beacon, standing together in the heart of the festival.