Was Woodstock the spiritual spark of a generation’s awakening? Was it the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, or what?

Harmony and understanding? Trust and sympathy abounding?

Is the moon still in the seventh house?

Is Jupiter aligned with Mars?

Yet, in contrast, the world was anything but peaceful in 1968 when Hair: The American Tribal Love Rock Musical opened on Broadway. That same year saw American bombs and napalm falling on Vietnam, Richard Nixon’s rise to the presidency, and the tragic assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Senator Robert F. Kennedy.

Inner-city neighborhoods across the country erupted in riots, revealing a nation deeply fractured.

Periods of crisis tend to spark visions of paradise.

The 1960s were fertile ground for New Age ideologies—some born of hope, others tainted by ego.

For instance, Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s movement cloaked self-interest in spiritual language.

In my youth, I learned firsthand that not all so-called higher callings lead to the light. The self-help boom and the search for spiritual comfort became big business in the 1970s, 1980s, and beyond. I was among those who found guidance in Wayne Dyer’s teachings. During the 1960s and 1970s, hippie communes emerged across the country. Many were drawn by a yearning to reconnect with nature and turned away from capitalism, consumer culture, and traditional family structures.

Communal living often meant shared resources—and even shared partners.

Children were born into these bold social experiments. But as time passed, the ideals of group marriage unraveled, leaving many of the “real children of the Sixties” searching for direction in a world that no longer matched their parents’ dreams.

Day 3 of Woodstock, August 17, 1969, was stacked with talent—from the gritty blues of Joe Cocker and Johnny Winter to the rootsy rock of The Band and Country Joe & the Fish.

That day, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young had me hooked—so did Sha-Na-Na with their throwback charm and, of course, the legendary Jimi Hendrix.

Rain delays mixed things up, pushing some acts into the next day and giving the weekend a wild, free-flowing feel. To me, Woodstock was a moment. To others, it became my identity.

For decades, the simple truth that I was there has carried weight, assumptions, and meaning far beyond what I intended.

People think they’ve got me all figured out—my politics, lifestyle, and choices—just because I went to Woodstock.

They don’t know that my cousin and I were two California kids hitchhiking our way East. We landed in a rickety blue VW van with five other people, who were our last ride.

When they saw us thumbing on the side of the road, they laughed and said, “Hop in—we’re headed to Woodstock. Looks like rain’s coming.”

And rain it did—torrents of it, whipped sideways by gusts that rendered my borrowed umbrella useless. Naturally, I ducked into the supply tent and grabbed the essentials: clean underwear, a toothbrush, a roll of toilet paper, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. Practicality has always been second nature to me.

At the time, living in Los Altos and unaware of my family’s privilege, I couldn’t have imagined how many souls shared the same longing—traveling, like Sherry and I did, from all corners of the country to gather at Woodstock.

The music may have called us, but the spontaneous, swirling city we created stayed with me.

Over the years, those memories have fused with scenes from films, pages of books, and iconic photographs—each layering my own experience with myth and meaning. Peace signs flew like wildflowers in the wind as we waved to front-porch strangers and played in the pouring rain.

We danced without rhythm, waded through mud with grins on our faces, and leaned in close to hear the tinny buzz of a transistor radio—it confirmed what we felt: the world was watching. So we shared everything—weed, wine, and bread—without hesitation, without shame.

We were welcomed into a makeshift campground, and Sherry, the social butterfly, went off to meet the neighbors.

While she mingled, I focused on what truly mattered—tracking down a portable toilet without waiting long enough to question life choices.

Eventually, I gave up and did what many of us did—found the least populated patch of grass and made do, surrounded by a few hundred of my new best friends.

I wish I could say we came prepared, but we didn’t.

And I’d love to tell you I handled the lack of bathrooms, the clouds of pot smoke, and the naked guy swinging from the scaffolding, flinging chunks of mud at our heads—with grace.

But I didn’t.

I wish I could say being crammed into a sea of bodies with too little food, barely any water, and ominous warnings from the stage to “avoid the red pills” didn’t rattle me. But it did. All of it did.

Sherry—who, believe it or not, ended up as a finance guru in Chicago—kept telling me to “just mellow out.”

That line hits me like nails on a chalkboard, right up there with being told to “calm down.”

Over the years, as Woodstock became more of a memory than a moment, I’ve come to look back on it with surprising fondness.

I still remember Janis Joplin singing “Piece of My Heart”—a performance that hit me right in the gut, even if I was knee-deep in mud.

I appreciated her checking in on us from the stage, too. And Country Joe McDonald?

His Vietnam protest song became an anthem I couldn’t stop singing—on every long road trip I’ve taken since, especially the three times I drove to the coast.

Yes, I was one of the voices shouting, “One, two, three, what are we fighting for?”

And when a then-largely-unknown Joe Cocker took the stage with his raspy vocals and wildly erratic movements, I was both spellbound and quietly wondering if someone should check on him—or if that were just part of the show.

When an event like Woodstock becomes legendary, it’s easy to forget that only about a third of those who made it stayed through all three days—and into the fourth. Sherry and I stayed, knowing that getting home would be no small feat. So we endured the mud, the chaos, and all the physical discomforts that came with it. Whether I intended it or not, just showing up at Woodstock symbolized something larger.

To others, it marked me as authentic—someone who didn’t just talk about change but lived it, a woman who dared to believe in peace over war, equality over division, and a better world beyond the one we were given. It’s not lost on me that four days at a wildly uncontained rock concert have, over time, become a personal myth that others find endlessly compelling.

And yes—the music?

Truly unforgettable.