and we’ve got to text ourselves back to the garden

Es­ti­mated reading time is 2 min­utes.

AT THE WOODSTOCK Music & Art Fair in 1969 we all back to the garden (and the mud puddle). Just the name con­jures im­ages in mil­lions of peo­ple’s minds—regardless-of age—of youth in­no­cence joy music color summer even of end­less hori­zons and pos­si­bil­i­ties. And one-on-one person-with-person in­ti­macy being here now in­ti­macy grokking the moment.

Joni Mitchel wrote a lovely song about the event that was turned into a hit single for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young in 1970:

I came upon a child of God, he was walking along the road.
And I asked him, “Where are you going?” and this he told me:
“I’m going on down to Yas­gur’s farm.
I’m going to join in a rock and roll band.
I’m going to camp out on the land.
I’m going to try an’ get my soul free.”

We are star­dust, we are golden,
and we’ve got to get our­selves back to the garden.

“Then can I walk be­side you? I have come here to lose the smog,
and I feel to be a cog in some­thing turning!
Well, maybe it is just the time of year, or maybe it’s the time of man.
I don’t know who l am, but you know life is for learning.”

We are star­dust, we are golden,
and we’ve got to get our­selves back to the garden.

By the time we got to Wood­stock, we were half a mil­lion strong,
and every­where there was song and celebration.
And I dreamed I saw the bombers riding shotgun in the sky,
and they were turning into but­ter­flies above our nation.

We are star­dust, billion-year-old carbon.
We are golden, caught in the dev­il’s bargain,
and we’ve got to get our­selves back to the garden.

 

Smartphones children 1200

If an event of that sup­posed na­ture was held today, there would be hun­dreds of thou­sands of people sit­ting on their asses, bab­bling on their cell­phones with someone who wasn’t there, tex­ting them about how great it was to be there! Maybe an alt-rock group could record a new ver­sion of the old song with a few up­dated changes in the lyrics:

We are star­dust, billion-year-old carbon.
We are golden, caught in the dev­il’s bargain,
and we’ve got to text our­selves back to the garden . . .

 


 

 

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