This peak ends with an element of revolutionary glory.
We see from it an era born: a hard-earned expression of Eros and art in the world, of women and love liberated from propriety, of a stream of sufficiency permeating the planet.
The surplus of bliss that is available in the depths of sex is tapped into to dissolve the compensations, the grasps and pushes we do in “not enough.” The world shifts into a new modus operandi.
Play and creativity lead, art is created like we’ve never imagined, and words are restored to their sacred place—eloquence. It’s the explosion of the creative mind onto the scene, not unlike the spirituality that came from the Summer of Love. Solutions for the ailments of society bloom because the Spring of Eros has arrived.
In its wake, the past years are seen for what they are, McCarthyism aimed to prevent this very thing from happening. But even the culprits of that terrible time get absorbed and absolved into this new world, this new place.
The sense of new love, in love, limerence permeates everything because it is all in fact new. The elders, the teachers, the tradition that sees all from behind the scenes pour their various elixirs and tinctures in celebration. All that was taken is returned, but increased and polished: money, reputation, peace, hope, belief, friends not to harm but to repair. All cracks are filled with gold.
The lovers, the haters, the enemies, the helpers, all come over the mountain to meet offstage and dance down in the valley with the music of Chowchilla Blues Band, celebrating with the biggest hootenanny on the planet. We remember: In the end we are all friends.