This is one of those blog entries I have told myself all morning not to write - I know I am going to regret this - but, I guess that's never stopped from doing things before, now has it?
Last night I watched my copy of Woodstock. Unfortunately, I can't recapture my youth, but hey, at least once in awhile, especially on anniversary events, I can relive it for a few hours.
No, I didn't go to the Woodstock Music Festival. I would have if we lived anywhere near there - but, alas, we lived in Phoenix, I was fifteen in 1969. The documentary was released the next year. I had just gotten my driver's license. Good thing the ticket teller didn't ask me for my ID to get into the "R" rated movie - they did those things back then.
I was transfixed. Three hours, only broken by the interfuckingmission. The music gave shape to my inner life - because my outer life was being pounded into form by church and sports. None of those hammers had matching rhythms. The expected outcomes of each was dramatically out of tune. What to do? Live different lives and don't let anyone see the inner world. Worked for awhile, well sort of, actually not really.
Oddly enough, as I watched the film last night it dawned on me that my incarnational spirituality was being played out before me on the screen. No matter how hard the external pounding, the inner vibrations eventually will ooze out. Mystical experiences need no words - sometimes though, it helps to having something to dance to.