We are having a surge of articles about Woodstock. I was not there. Let me get that out of the way. I was stuck in a two bedroom apartment with a son and a husband who would leave soon after. My life seemed to be over except for the thread that tethered me to my child. A thread of love. Vietnam was happening, and the world I envisioned to embrace was no where in sight. I looked at the images of Woodstock on the television and it seemed like a world I might want as my own with freedom, wild visions, and hope to escape the mundane.
My husband eventually walked out. Years afterwards when I went to college to learn something practical I met the man I would marry and live with for the rest of my life. He was at Woodstock. Through him the windows opened wide and let the joy of the world in. My son who was seven took this childlike quality as something he could recognize. We all three grew up together.
I had Woodstock after the mud and the publicity and the darkness set in Hippie living. I had Woodstock with loved ones later on in the Rocky Mountains, living on more altitude than a farmer’s field, with everyone an artist — talent be damned!
Somehow we kept the good part of the vision Woodstock beamed . Joanie Mitchell said it was all about trying to get back to the Garden. I have a garden which soothes me in my old age. No tempting snakes or judgmental Gods. Just green and sunny for half the year.
I am in my 70s and know it by others as well as by my aching bones. When I am out, I am invisible. My voice is in my vote, however, and I choose to use it voting for the future, not the past. I can still appreciate the vibrancy of life even if it is harder to participate in it.
Why would I want to stop Time? It made me who I am and what I am. It will do the same for all those young voices out there. Perhaps they too will want to shout LOOK AT ME! HEAR ME! and realize how foolish they might sound to those rushing past at top speed.
The moon which they say is dead landscape exerts pulls on our tides and our imagery by turning size, shape and color to our eyes. Now it is strawberry which delights us in the summer advent. What would the poets do without this constant changing of the sky?
Just as soon as the pain subsides, we remember again lost life from the world around us. Flora and fauna come vibrantly into our lives and then leave us. And humans sculpt a need for us and then smash that sculpture. Buddhism says we live in “duhka”, the sorrow — not “suhka, the sweet. As though like a drop of honey sweetness only tempers the sorrow that awaits us.
Finally here! We wait impatiently like a hopeful lover for all of it…..the colors and smells and tastes of a season we know can fill us up with energies that winter has sapped. April may be the cruelest month, but it is also the most inspiring.
Just got back from Canada where the air is colder and the people are warmer. Spring always induces a false hope in me that life will be better in every way. Canada seems to be an optimistic nation while our country under Trump shelters any kindness under the cloud of anger that stirs up in the hands of an ungrateful leader. I am soon going on to Europe which also seems in disarray. Tulips are ripe for tiptoeing, but my clumsy thoughts don’t want to stamp them down.
We all are ready for flowers. There comes the time when only blossoms help us shine. Robins are here too, waiting. The geese have consumed the grass. They are waiting. This is why Spring must not disappoint us and slide directly into summer. We need the pause when flowers grow.