Child of the 60s

I was a child of the 60s and privileged, I've come to understand as an 'old therapist', to have been. That readied me for my own therapy experiences in the 70s and flung me headlong into more in the 80s and 90s. I got to shuttle back and forth in the therapy chairs talking to my deceased father and kneel couchside crying and commanding my unconscious to wake up while pounding the commands deep into my mind with my fists. I also got to struggle through the 'birth canal' of my encounter groups legs and have my face painted by a group partner who leaned down to kiss my forehead. All because I grew up in the 60s while this wondrous experiential 'consciousness' work was being developed and practiced.
The list goes on.
I've worked on my 'father issues' for decades and I continue to.
My father was probably the greatest gift of my life even though the 'key' issue is that I was abandoned by him, neglected by him, bereft for him.

How it all sews together is of course a mystery. I know far more about him and my self and therapy now than then, of course, but I don't know exactly what I know. It's the goldfish trying to conceptualize water. We don't know. We just swim in it.

I watched a movie yesterday about a character who loved the music of the 60s. It was more than music. It was the search for some sort of meaning in the craziness of the world in the 60s and then there is the phenomenon I've noted for a few years now: that the 60s really happened in the 70s.