Hippie Love

Yesterday, my friend Lauren told me I was a hippie.

“Really?” I said. I don’t know how it came up, but somehow I was telling her that the house where I babysit has a sign that says “Hippies Welcome,” and my son asked what being a hippie meant. I didn’t know how to describe it.

“Just tell him, you,” she said.

I laughed as she reminded me that two weeks ago, when a few of us were walking through the city, I encouraged everybody to sit in the park and put their hands on the earth.

This new Jana is a far cry from the uptight twenty-something who sat in a Catholic school’s faculty room grading papers, obsessed with perfection. Back then, I was surprised when my colleagues told me I was Type-A.

But I can’t help who I am. It’s taken me a long time to get to this place, and I don’t know where I’m going after this. All I know is that it feels good to be me, fully, right now.

I want my bare feet on the earth. I want feathers in my hair. I want beads on my arms, stones around my neck. I sit on the steps of my porch and I burn incense and I smoke cigarettes, and I listen to music. I put amber oil on my skin. I stare out into the sky and I feel so much love.

In the morning and at night, I sit at the altar in my bedroom and I burn sage and palo alto and light candles. I pray to the one whose name is Holy, the one whose name I’m afraid to say out loud. (It begins with a “J.”) I ask him to fill my heart with Light, and when I pray hard enough, and when I say his name, his Light enters in. And I am healed. And I am whole.

My life is pretty magical.

If you want to feel a little magic, too, listen to these tunes.

“thrush_3”by Howlsthunder is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

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