Reflect, Memories, Journey, On Swings | Have Fun | Your Day

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of times spent on a swing; the ropes clutched between my fists, sun-browned arms extended, head tilted back to feel the warmth of the summer sun on my face.

There were days I’d sit suspended, barely moving, eyes squeezed shut; the scent of freshly cut grass, heavy in the air. Feather-like gentle breezes tickled my cheek as the world around me grew still and quiet, leaving only the distant sounds of birds and far-off muffled voices. Fuzzy white dots danced on the back of my eyelids and the heat of an August afternoon enveloped me like a soft, well-worn blanket. Those were slow, lazy days when all was right with the world.

Other times I’d soar above the treetops; legs pumping furiously, toes pointed to the sky, straining to get to a place only Superman could see. Faster and higher, my body lifted from the seat each time the swing met its apex. My cheeks flushed red with exertion. My mind surrendered to a make-believe world in which I was a bird. My nostrils filled with the scents from the lake nearby and I fixed my eyes on the fish that would be my prey. The wind beneath my wings lifted me. I soared. I dipped. I hovered. Ah yes, I was flying! What freedom it must be to live like this everyday.

It’s amazing what that plain, rather crude contraption could do. This was no computerized piece of high-tech entertainment, but rather, simplicity itself. Two long lengths of heavy rope tied to a branch far above, and a spartan slab of wood for a seat. But what a piece of wood it was; so well worn that it shone from what appeared to be hours of labour in the workshop. Its sides were deeply notched from the rope constantly rubbing against it, as tiny bodies rode it to new places far, far away. Back and forth, to and fro, it moved in perpetual motion. And when the grooves wore deeper and the seat took on the form of its users, it was flipped to the other side and the process began anew.

The swing was the centre of the universe for an entire neighbourhood of young adventurers. How we all loved the magical power it possessed to take us to make believe places only our imaginations could see. Some of us became birds, some airplanes; others saw themselves as pirates, perched precariously high amid the rigging of a Spanish galleon, a black patch over one eye and sabre in hand, on the look-out for ships to plunder. A few were cowboys, sitting astride the seat like a saddle, galloping after outlaws. Clad in chaps and brandishing their six-shooter, they were Roy Rogers or Dale Evans, Hopalong Cassidy or Zorro. The most venturesome of all were the circus performers. They were the bravest, who dared to stand while in motion, defying danger and tempting fate. Climbing a treacherous imaginary ladder to a tiny platform far above the crowd of onlookers below, they took the swinging trapeze in their hands, and dazzled the gasping audience with their feats of agility and daring.

Years later when we had all become teenagers, new swings claimed our allegiance. Surrounded in sand and set amidst a beachfront park, they were a gathering place for the entire adolescent population. If a first love faltered, it was lamented here. Trouble with parents? They were analysed and criticised. Secrets were shared and problems were solved. Futures were planned and memories relived. The swings were a part of our metamorphosis from gangly children to young adults.

But not all times spent here were so solemn. There were days when we’d return to the gay abandon of our childhood and take to the swings like the troop of banshees we’d been as toddlers. There was always one swing that could reach higher than the others and it became the prize. We’d race through the sand to claim it, and then work to be the first to crest the bar that suspended its chains. As the swing began to slow, we’d jump from our perch and land barefoot in the sand, screaming and laughing the entire time. And as the sun sank low in the sky and the trees cast long reaching shadows, we would dig our toes in the soft coolness of the sand and languish on the swings for hours, doing nothing more than daydreaming about what the future would be.

I look back now and feel nothing less than amazed at the role the swings played in our young lives. They were a place of comfort and camaraderie, excitement and adventure. Not just for me, but I expect for generations of kids just like me. Who could resist having their imagination run wild after hearing the likes of Disney’s Jiminy Cricket as he crooned, “Or would you like to swing on a star and carry moonbeams home in a jar?” Those words alone were enough to send me off to a vantage point high above the world, sitting suspended by silken ropes and dangling from the tip of a five-pointed star. Gripped in my hand was one of mother’s canning jars exploding with the light I had just robbed from the Man in the moon.

Even today, it seems swings continue to pervade the images we project as adults. Every idyllic love scene includes a swing. Portrayals of carefree times and relaxation often focus on them. Designers regard them as de rigeur for every fashionable backyard, be it in the country or nestled in the tiniest courtyard of Manhattan. Whether their power comes from the physical or the mental, the gentle rocking experienced in the womb, or the warm protection of our mother’s arms, the magic they seem to create is one that never leaves us. I fully expect a swing will be just as much fun at seventy as it was at seven. I daresay if we were all prescribed swing therapy, the world just might be a much happier place.

Perhaps that’s it. A credo for life. Each time we stop to reflect on the world around us, search for the answer to a particularly wearisome problem or simply take time from a trouble-fraught existence, maybe we should return to the place that has served us so well in past. A place full of the possibilities of life; one that cradles and calms, excites and enlivens, protects and provokes. Of course, it’s a swing.

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