A most wonderful, awesomeness thing happened to me recently. It may not sound like a big deal, but believe me, gentle Google Reader, when I say- it is.
I have re-discovered the simple pleasure of swinging.
Before anyone closes the window or deletes me from the Reader, please, do scroll down another paragraph or so. I promise, it’s not what you may be thinking. Oh, and get your dirty mind out of the gutter.
Our local council recently decided to upgrade our tiny local park (not the same one where the cows where a’roaming) from it’s mouldy, mildewy, spider-invested play equipment that, unsurprisingly, no one really played on; to an uber-cool, fire-proofed, funky new set with a slippery dip, net climb-y thing…
… and a swing set.
I used to love to swing when I was little, what ever happened to that? I think I became a teenager, maybe. And then swinging just wasn’t cool anymore.
I’d forgotten about pushing yourself back and forth, pumping your legs to gain height and speed. I’d forgotten how the fluid motion of swinging feels like weightless flying. I’d forgotten what a freedom it was to have your toes pointed directly at the sky. I’d forgotten the sheer exhilaration of your stomach dropping as the chains on the swing go lax.
I’d forgotten, I think, how it felt to be a kid, to have all your troubles stripped away while the breeze rushes through your hair.
And I’m hoping it’s quite a while before I forget again.
Because it’s given me something back, those few minutes at a time on the swing set. A few minutes of reprieve. A few minutes where I remember exactly what it feels like to be a child. The importance placed on the moment, on the how-things-feel-right-now. It doesn’t matter, you see, if our electricity bill is late, or if I’ve forgotten to take the meat out of the freezer for dinner again, or how on earth am I’m gonna get this kid to sleep in her own bed? For a few minutes there, all that matters is the act of swinging. Of flying. Of touching the sky.
And of not letting my worries touch me.