The Start of a Successful Commune: The Farm
Inside the large, high-ceilinged hall—a thousand flower children—hippies, magical-looking, colorful people—aspiring wizards and shamans, a few older Bohemians, and beatniks; sweet, young, sparkle-eyed, rosy-cheeked love children, Hobbit wannabes, and all manner of free spirits. The Family Dog filled up. Folks mingled, chatted, hugged and sat down on the big, wooden dance floor—forming a wall-to-wall, crazy quilt of friendly people, bedrolls, paisley cushions and zafus. The air was scented with an intoxicating blend of patchouli, sandalwood, sage, and a hint of frankincense and myrrh.
A tall, lanky hippie stepped up silently onto a simple, low stage and sat down cross-legged—facing the crowd. A thrill of anticipation ran through the hall. Conversations tapered off, and the hall grew silent. People sat up and began to meditate. Palpable peace and a fun sense of being in on something cool washed over the crowd.
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