Stopping to Swing
Today I swung. I walked by an empty playground and realised it had been ages since I’d hopped on a swing.
(Why is it an activity that imparts such a sense of freedom – of exhilaration – is relegated to children? Why aren’t more adults hopping on swings and flying high?)
I got some amused looks from the people in the neighbouring dog park as I walked up to the middle swing of the swing set in my business pants and sat down. The rubber seat gripped around my hips and buttocks, my hands wrapped around the cold chain, and tentatively I pushed off from the sandy floor.
Like riding a bicycle, it didn’t take long to remember how to shift my weight at the end of each swing – first my legs, then my back – to create powering momentum. Cautiously at first, my eyes looking up the chains to the connecting hinges above and wondering briefly if they were made to take my weight, and before long with wild abandon – throwing all my weight behind each successive swing until I confidently climbed higher and higher and higher still …. till finally the buckling slack in the chain told me I’d reached as high as I could go. (I’ve heard whisper of a swing in Europe where you can swing all the way around in the safety of some contraption.)
I’d broken a sweat. My abs were tight from being engaged. I was flying. I was tempted to jump – but I didn’t. Not until the swing slowed considerably, but then I bravely launched myself into the air and landed well enough.
I walked away lighter of spirit.
I won’t leave it as long till the next time I fly free, fly high – and let the children have all the fun.