From the Blog Archives: Oct. 4, 2005

I was curious to see what I had written on this date 3 years ago (I was using a different blog site, so you won’t find it here), but there wasn’t an entry for October 5, so I chose October 4 instead. It just so happens to be an entry I remember quite well:

When I was younger I used to love swings. My parents would take my brother and me to the park, and we would race each other to see who could get their legs highest first. I remember focusing hard on the sky above me, urging every fiber of my being to stretch, to grasp for that blue nothingness, as if by reaching I could somehow be among the stars I imagined were twinkling even when I couldn’t see them. I loved the feel of the wind rushing against my face and tugging at my hair, filling me with energy and life, and I wanted to work harder and harder to keep that feeling there, to keep the air alive. When I was soaring through the blue I felt as though I were flying through time, and all my cares (what few I had then) dropped to the ground like so many raindrops on a stormy day. But eventually my leg muscles would tense up, the furious pumping of my legs would weaken, and I would find myself back on the ground where I started, breathless and empty, the stars millions of miles away.

Now that I’m older I don’t swing anymore. I miss the breeze filling my lungs, the hair dancing around my face. I miss taking off from the ground, my feet free in space. I wonder if I tried to swing now, could I even leave the ground? I’ve been earth-bound far too long.

Does anyone else feel like swinging? I’ll race you to the playground.

2 thoughts on “From the Blog Archives: Oct. 4, 2005

  1. Oh I love to swing and it just drives my kids nuts now that they are over the age of 10. 🙂 I don’t dare to swing on our older set here at home that is never used but I love to jump on and pump as high as I can when we visit the park for a walk. Thanks for the great memories. I enjoy your blog Erin. I hope to see you more often down the path to good health.


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