The Inner Hippie

I was explaining the other day to a friend that I was off being a hippie for the weekend - wearing my birkenstocks, a colourful knitted poncho, uncouth hair and a full-to-the-brim feeling of "see, we can just all get along!" I was off to Summerfolk.

I've been going to this folk festival for about 25 years. (It's a little horrifying that I can say such things...) My father had the sense to drag me along when I was ten, mostly because my big brother got to go, so I likely demanded "me too!" He had the sense to include me, but I'm not certain it was good parental sense... sitting around campfires with more than campfire smoke in the air, singing until the sun rose. The 'responsible' adults in my circle far far far away from sensible, and I was witness to a world of shenanigans. As a result, I still call my father by his first name. Still, I couldn't be more grateful.

My father no longer makes the trek to Summerfolk, and I have transformed from "Carmen's daughter," to one of the gang. Days filled with incredible music, evenings dancing in the beer tent, and nights of campfire dazzlement. Laughing until my back spasms, and then laughing some more. Friends that fill my heart up with joy. I come back to reality all refreshed, centred, blissful.

However, my friend suggested that my hippie isn't so inner. I wear my birkies into the office some days. My tunes all seem to have messages of "everybody get together and try to love one another". My hair is never refined, and you can often spot a wee braid in there. I suspect he's right - I just learned how to knit so I could make a new poncho. Thanks Carmen!