My kids used to think I was cool when I said I was a hippie.  Growing up in the sixties and seventies, I lived through the Civil Rights movement and experienced racial integration of schools, the Vietnam war, Woodstock (although I was too young to attend), and so much of the social unrest that gave rise to the “hippie” movement.  In high school, I played a lot of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan on the guitar (although listening to Joan Baez albums was frowned upon in my house).  I wore peasant tops or dresses, huarache sandals, and even wore baby’s breath in my hair at my first wedding instead of the traditional gown and veil. I grabbed onto the “peace and love” mantra and rebelled against my “too strict” moralistic upbringing, claiming it suffocated my desire to be a free spirit.

            Truth be told, I was terrified to really be a “free spirit”.  I didn’t have enough self-confidence to be outspoken about my beliefs on social issues.  I was also too afraid to experiment with much of the drug culture that was such a part of the hippie lifestyle.  I loved the idea of hippiedom and what it stood for; but looking back now, some 40 years and a somewhat harsh lifetime later, I think a lot of it was about the clothes.

            I still struggle with having the confidence to speak out.  I’ve spent so many years wanting to “fit in”, worrying about people liking me, even wanting my kids to think I was “cool”, that I never showed my true self to anyone.  And now, at 64 years old, I’m almost ashamed to admit that I’m still on a journey of discovery, still trying to figure out who I am.

            Which is a lot different than who I want to be. 

            I have always held to the habit of journaling, at least since my early 20’s.  (Before that, I just wrote tortured poetry and envisioned myself as the next version of Sylvia Plath, sans suicide).  When I go back and read those earlier journals (yes, I still have them) they sound like the rantings of a drunken madwoman, self-absorbed to the max, which is mostly what they were.  There’s no redeeming literary quality, no great insight into the human existence, no real focus.   Just whining, really.

            In my later years, my journaling has taken a somewhat different path.  My journals over the past 30 some odd years are more of a sorting out of spiritual beliefs. I left behind the vague spirituality of hippiedom and mother earth and had moved into the world of self-sufficiency and intellectual knowledge.  When that path also failed me, I finally surrendered to the idea of a higher power, the concept of which has evolved over time, as reflected in the boxes of journals now stacked up randomly in a storage unit in New Jersey.

            A few of those journals escaped being boxed up, and I came across one recently from around 10 years ago.  What struck me when I read through it was that my life circumstances were similar (preparing to move), and my writing reflected a lot of the same discouragement and disillusionment, both with life in general and with myself as a “spiritually mature Christian”.  Somewhat of a disappointment, actually, that I continue to fall short of my self-imagined growth.

            I know that word “Christian” doesn’t have positive connotations, especially recently.  It certainly isn’t considered “cool”, and is even considered hypocritical and vile by some.  I’m hesitant to even identify myself by that term in the current climate, and prefer to think of myself as a Jesus follower: someone who relies on the grace of a loving God to get her through the ups and downs of daily life.  A woman who does “nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility counts others more significant than herself” (Phil. 2:3); who does “all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation” (2:15-16).  But here’s the thing- that’s the person I WANT to be.  As I read through the years of ramblings collected in these journals, as I read through what I wrote just last week, I sill find myself a far cry from the person I want to be.  But I do know who I am not.

            I am no longer an unhinged self-centered woman driven solely by emotions and a misguided sense of entitlement.  The peace and love I seek today is no longer just a cultural incantation hoping to bring about social change; it’s a “peace that passes understanding” and a love that “casts out fear” and “surpasses knowledge”.

            I still like the clothes.  But I wear them today because they’re comfortable, not because they make a statement.  My kids may not think I’m “cool”, but they know without a doubt that I love them in spite of my numerous missteps as a parent.  And I may not be the woman I want to be, but I am content to be open to learn and willing to acknowledge those areas that still need some tweaking. 

            And just as a footnote, this is in no way an attempt to elicit accolades or encouragement, or to have anyone tell me I’m cool.  In fact, those types of comments make me uncomfortable.  I write and share only as an extension of my self-contained journaling, and to perhaps encourage others that we never really arrive at some worldly or spiritual perception of success, and that’s okay.  We just walk a day at a time, sometimes haltingly, sometimes even stumbling, but getting up to do it again the next day.  Hoping those days, however many I’m given, make a little bit of difference.

Peace out-