The Daughter of a Child

While I do not consider myself a hippie per se, I feel comfortable in their company. I grew up at a time when the original hippie movement began and flourished. I cannot help but feel there is a hippie element in my psyche: a being who rejects the status quo, who seeks peace and social justice for all, who is concerned about the well being of our Earth Mother, a person who embraces creativity and wants to live life in a celebratory manner. At least that's my definition of hippiedom.

Floydfest is full of hippies. It is a four day-long music festival in the mountains of Virginia. The musical styles represented range from bluegrass to funk, creole to boogie-woogie, often crossing over to jam band territory. It is a children friendly event which programs a variety of activities and performances specifically for them. There are wide open fields in which people toss Frisbees or juggling sticks, bang on various drums, scale a climbing wall or relax in hammocks. There are dream catchers as tall as a building to which one fastens a scrap of fabric with a message of Love that they've written on it.

I arrived at Floydfest on a Friday afternoon after a terrible emotional meltdown the night before which prevented me from getting much sleep. I nearly talked myself out of going. But I knew that once I got on the road, everything would be better. I would experience a degree of freedom from the thoughts which plague me, thoughts which hold my growth in check, thoughts of self loathing and fear. And indeed, as I drove away from Greensboro and into the country listening to music that lifted my spirits, I began to feel in sync with my Self.

This was to be my first year participating in Floydfest as a living statue and Floydfest's first year accepting buskers. No one knew what to expect. I went into it hoping to make up the costs accrued going there but attempting to have no expectations whatsoever.

Upon my arrival at the festival grounds, I began to feel that knot of uncertainty in my gut. I showed the gatekeepers my credentials and was directed to the staff parking and camping area. The plan was to pitch a tent on Friday and then hook up with my Ally on Saturday. He would be driving his phenomenal 1973 GMC RV to a campground nearby in which I would sleep comfortably. I parked on a crazy steep hillside which only an all terrain vehicle could traverse. It hurt my thighs to climb this hill. It hurt my thighs to go down this hill.

I wandered over to the staff camping area surrounding a small pond. Tents were pitched tightly against one another around the entire perimeter. Space was available on a steep hill. This did not seem appealing to me. I abandoned my search for a campsite and decided to explore the festival grounds to get a sense of the layout and the vibe.

Let me here emphasize how hilly Floydfest's grounds are. From the staff parking lot to the festival entrance, I walked a gradual incline which sharply increased, leveled out again right outside of the entrance, sharply increased again just past the entrance, then decreased to another gradual incline before leveling out to become somewhat flat. I estimate the distance from parking to flatland to be half a mile. But I'm no judge of distance. Particularly when walking up hills.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the volume of people and sound and the intensity of smells. Yes, patchouli. Of course. But also sandalwood, spicy foods, wood smoke and woods. I walked the entire breadth of the festival and felt overloaded with sights and sounds. The air seemed thick and hot and hard to breathe. So I made my way back across to the entrance and from there proceeded to my car. I felt dizzy, literally feeling as if I was losing my footing with each step. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was a flatlander trying to adjust to hills. But when I reached my car I had to sit still, drink water, eat an apple to recover and once again feel somewhat grounded.

I needed to pitch my tent before dark so I decided to do so in the parking area itself. I found a space that was enclosed by cars which no one would be able to access with their vehicle. I am not the camping sort. This was the first time in my life I'd ever set up a tent by myself. I had to call my Ally for direction once. But eventually I had erected a structure that looked like it would protect me from the elements. Sort of.

It began to rain. Rather than test the tent, I sat in my car, ate a little food and readied myself for another excursion to the festival grounds. Nahko and Medicine for the People were going to play later and I wanted to catch their set. I decided not to try and busk, rather to acclimate myself fully to the festival.

It was getting dark by this time and the crowd was growing in size and rambunctiousness. I noticed a vendor who sold stainless steel mugs that you could refill as many times as you like with sodas that had no caffeine and were made with cane sugar. I purchased one and filled it with root beer. The cold, sweet frothiness was like manna from Heaven to me. It fueled me. It empowered me to go forth and stand among the masses waiting to see Nahko.

I walked to the opposite end of the festival grounds to the stage where Nahko would play. The vast number of people present was astonishing. They were listening to the band playing prior to Nahko and when it ended, the gigantic horde flowed from the stage area towards me. People were walking directly towards me. That is to say, no one had any sense that I was present. I had to avoid bumping into virtually everyone. I have never experienced this phenomenon. It was as if all sense of personal space had vanished. I marveled at this while dodging bodies. As soon as I was in an open area, I could breathe freely.

I moved to what I thought was a comfortable distance from the stage with a handful of others to wait. The band set up and ran sound check.  Gradually, more people packed themselves in around me. My comfort capacity had been reached. Yet the crowd continued to grow. Before long, I was packed in the middle of a sea of bodies, all exuberant with expectation. Different smoke-able substances were lit around me. I stood still, trying to figure out what to do with my arms, which suddenly seemed to be in the way. I tried to maintain balance, which became hard once the band began to play. Everyone around me was jumping, dipping, swaying, pumping their fists. It was too much movement for an unbalanced equilibrium to endure. I remained in my position for the duration of two songs before deciding I needed to somehow negotiate my way out of the crowd.

Let me again say that all the bodies were tightly packed together. In order for me to make room for my body to pass between others, I had to slowly step forward and say, "I'm sorry. Pardon me. Excuse me please. I'm trying to get out." As I edged my way through the people, each person, I kid you not, each person rubbed my back or lightly scratched it with the tips of their fingernails, scratched my head, tickled my neck. This informal intimacy took me aback and internally I bucked and brayed against the Love being offered by these lovely people. I felt embarrassed for no fathomable reason. But I had to admit, the kind touches felt good.

Once I broke free from the crowd I slowly walked to the back of it, savoring Nahko's message of Love and Indigenous Empowerment. I watched children dance with abandon on a small stage illuminated by two torches. It became a tribal ceremony of sorts. I was entranced for a while but grew too tired to remain. So I hiked back to the staff parking, to my tent.

A bit of rain had seeped into the entrance. I flung my sleeping bag across an inflatable mattress that was only partially inflated. I cared less about blowing it up than I did about laying down on it. I flipped the dampest side of my pillow over and slid into the sleeping bag. It was then that I noticed how great an incline I was on. My sleeping bag started sliding down the tent, towards my feet. I laughed to myself at the silliness of this predicament. I experimented with different positions in order to limit my sliding. I managed to become slightly still, at which point the obstacle to my sleep became the sounds from the festival. The music was broadcast away from the festival grounds and to my ears on loud speakers. In this way, I was able to take in the last of Nahko's set. But before his set ended, another band began on another stage, the two musics co-mingling.

The cacophonous roar, the not quite inflated mattress, the sleeping bag sliding every time I moved, and the monumentally bright spot light that lit up the parking lot for late travelers - all kept me awake until around midnight. At last, sweet sleep enveloped me. Like a cool rain quenching a parched earth, I felt relief. Until the fireworks started.

I woke to an explosion directly overhead. And then another. And another. It took a moment to realize that these noises could be attributed to a fireworks display. Which was, again, directly overhead. How do I know this? Because the debris from the explosions fell onto my tent. So there I was, awake again at 1:30 a.m, wondering whether my tent would melt. I swore a bunch of swear words. And even though I was exhausted beyond description and my nerves were on edge, I knew in the back of my brain that this would be a funny story eventually.

When the fireworks stopped, I tried to make myself comfortable again. But the music seemed much louder and much more agitating. I wasn't sure what band was playing but I found their sound to be grating on my last nerves. And the constant shifting of body positions from agitation just caused the sleeping bag to slide uncontrollably. I was completely fed up at this point and got in my car where I could at least muffle the sound a little. Unfortunately, the monumentally bright spot light now shone directly into my eyes. I blocked my windows with whatever items I had handy in the car: a towel, a t-shirt and so on. I reclined my seat and tossed and turned the rest of the night away.

At 4:30 a.m. I very nearly packed up and drove home. I was wide awake and miserable. I had to pee and didn't want to climb down the steep hill to the port-o-potty. I lay there marveling at the level of commitment festival attendees had for partying, wondering where and how I could pee, wondering if I should just leave, realizing I had to stay otherwise I would hate myself. Eventually I got out of my car and peed, though I will not tell you where and how. I climbed back in with a renewed commitment to stay and eventually dozed off a few times.

The sun came up and I packed up the tent and prepared for my day ahead. A man who was clearly strung out on something approached me and started a conversation. At first, I was resistant and tried to brush him off. This mean part of my being wanted to be judgmental. But I relaxed and allowed the conversation to go where it would. This man was harmless. The exchange was fine.

I slowly negotiated the hills and bumps and holes and rocks to the festival grounds in search of coffee. I found it. With a long line of people waiting for it. I sighed and proceeded to the back of the line. I engaged in conversation with the woman immediately in front of me, which made the wait time seem minuscule. I bought a coffee and migrated over to a small group of musicians playing Neil Young's "Helpless." The woman who had conversed with me in line told me that they do this every year at the festival: get together in the mornings and play. Their rendition was sweet, gentle, comforting. I sat on the ground soaking it up.

It was one of those beautiful days that one can only experience in the mountains where the sky seems more vibrantly blue. And closer. The air cool, the sun hot. I savored the moment with gratitude. I conversed with yet another person and marveled at how easy it was to talk with people up there. Effortless. No games. No agendas. No gossip. No negativity. Just relating to each other as people.

This. Yes. I had endured the night for this.

I strolled around to see what was happening and how many people were around after such a late night of revelry. Again, the level of commitment these folks have for partying is impressive. It was not quite noon and already people were merry-making.

I left to meet my Ally at the campground where I would stay that night. It was fabulously quiet: surrounded by trees and rolling hills covered with Queen Anne's lace. The thought of sleeping there after a day of busking delighted me to no end. We both returned to the festival and I suited up to begin my day of busking.

For those of you who do not know me, I perform as a living statue for tips. I paint myself gold from head to toe, don a pair of paper wings and hold a small bowl of glitter. I stand perfectly still on a "pedestal" and wait for tips. When people deposit something (preferably cash) into my bucket, I merely look into their eyes and sprinkle glitter on their heads. Then I resume my statue form of stillness.

It surprises me at times that people do not notice me. They walk right past me as if I am actually a statue. When I move, they are shocked. This makes the acquisition of monies a bit more challenging. At Floydfest, more people than usual did not notice me - a person dressed up as a statue, being still on a box, awaiting their interaction. At times like this, I simply start indiscriminately slinging glitter. And this generates the desire in many people to come up to me and "get glittered." "Glitter me!" they'll say. "Oh! Give me some, too!" I play along with this. I look at it as passing out free samples of my work in the hopes that someone will eventually pay me. And this tends to happen.

I became the Glitter Goddess of Floydfest. I became an attraction. I had repeat visitors. I had a man who was slightly enamored with me.  At one point he approached me and said, "Now I know you aren't supposed to talk, but don't you sometimes have the urge to converse with someone?" I just shrugged my shoulders, shook my head "no," and sprinkled him with glitter. He laughed heartily and told me I was wonderful.

For the first time in my busking career, a little boy acted as if he would steal my money. It was an odd occurrence, this kid peering into my tip bucket, looking up at me, reaching his hand into the bucket, pulling it out and looking up at me again. The money, not my presence, was of more value to him. This created a weird sensation in my psyche. A momentary sadness.

I had a lot of requests for healing.  A lot of requests for prayers. Several requests for hugs. A lot of people told me I was awesome. A lot of people said, "I love you."

Can you imagine? In no other job have I received this sort of praise, admiration and sheer love!

When I took my dinner breaks, I removed my make-up, wings and wig but left my costume on. It's awkward usually for me to reveal my statue's identity. But here, it was less so. People cocked their heads as they looked at me, trying to connect this pink face with the golden one. One little girl, who had been scared of my statue, looked at me, and I said, "See? I'm just a person!" She cracked an uncertain smile. One woman approached me and said, "My son loves you! He talked about you all last night." A teenager looked at me stunned and said, "I thought you were a real statue! Man! You're good!"

The best gift of all, the very best one, came from a little girl whose face was painted to be a rainbow tiger face. She wore a long tie-dyed dress and two braids in her brown hair. As I was packing up at the end of my busking on Sunday, still wearing my wings and make-up, the little girl's mother came up to me while the girl stood several steps back. The mother told me how much I had touched her heart. She said, "My daughter, my little girl, she told me you are her daughter." The woman now had tears in her eyes. "My little girl said that. You are her daughter."

These words triggered the memory of a girl's voice that I heard while standing on my box: "Look, Mommy! There's my daughter! Yes! She is! She is my daughter!" These words were dismissed along with the flood of other words that entered my hearing sphere during the day. I looked at the little girl, realizing it had been her. Talking about me. I broke the rule of all living statues everywhere and spoke.

"Are you my mother?!" I asked. The little girl nodded her head confidently. I went over to her, knelt down and hugged her. "Thank-you, Mother!" I said. The girl smiled and gave her mother an I-told-you-so look. Not a sassy, disrespectful I-told-you-so look. Rather, a See-mom?-Magic-is-real! I-told-you-so-look. The mother thanked me and we hugged. I waved good-bye to my Mother. And I packed up my box.

A heavy rain descended, soaking me through and through. My wings, still attached, drooped down. They will need to be re-made. I threw my gear into the car, changed clothes out in the open, and walked around the festival grounds one last time with my Ally.

Floydfest's lights at night are so pretty. There are so many colors, shapes and textures. One truly feels as if magic abides. I absorbed as much of this happy magic as I possibly could before leaving. Upon leaving, I felt satisfied. As if I had done what I'd come to do. Make money, sure. But it was something else. I needed to regenerate Love in my heart. I needed a break from internetland and all the negativity emitted via social media. I needed nature. I needed immediate contact with people. I needed to put Love out into the world, one person at a time, one handful of glitter at a time. I needed to feel as if I had contributed one tiny bit of healing to our collective psyche. And remarkably, with one silly costume and a bunch of glitter, I feel I was able to do this.

It is an odd measure of success, this feeling of walking in step with myself, spreading whatever Love and Light I can muster. In the material world, I have no position of authority, nor any esteemed title with a powerful organization. I make enough money to live the life I care to live. My measure of success is not linked to money. And since money is so important to a lot of people, I used to beat myself up about my skewed nature. But now, I understand. I know the source of this misplaced definition of accomplishment: I am the daughter of a child. A rainbow tiger-faced girl.

I am grateful.