This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

It Starts Out Emo, but Really Gets Swinging in the Second Half

It's just after 6:30AM.  I am at the desk in the purple room and before me are the splayed out remnants of a once lovely jade plant.  I began this plant from a small cutting while living on Rock Street, I think, though it could have been on High Street.  Either way, that's damn near ten years ago.  The jade survived the moves from Michigan, to Illinois, to here and did very well last summer on the back deck. Now, after surviving my nearly killing it twice previously, it is near death once more.  When I began this paragraph I thought I might say I didn't care, anymore, whether the plant was revived or not, and how that the death of something that has been with me more than seven years was somehow metaphorical for my life, but as I wrote, my attachment to it resurged and I thought of how very little effort it would take to bring the good luck succulent back.  And that feels aptly metaphorical for my life too.

Writing, this therapeutic writing is a rare breed of constancy in my life span.

I go through the daily motions now and aim at the best choices I imagine, but if I set down and ponder what I'm doing I feel at a loss - or lost.  What am I doing? I'm a wife and mother all of the damn sudden!  Who is this; cooking consciously balanced meals, learning about the cognitive developments in a five month old, keeping to a cleaning schedule?

Oh shit.  Why hello familiar face in the mirror, you've put on some weight.  No wonder - really, with all my new baggage.

I did pick this baggage out myself, didn't I?  Wasn't I deeply tired of my one hand-me-down bag, cycling the carousel alone?  Didn't I long daily for newness and family ties, constant companions?

I need to be having more fun!  I could take Salamander down the road to the state park, set the brake on his stroller and get on a swing.  I do love the swings!  So many good memories, flying back and forth, pumping my legs.

There are the memories of Lions Park back home, or rather, where I grew up.  The wood chipped play ground down the hill from the soccer fields.  I know I worked there two summers at the end of high school - when else was I there to play?  When I was being watched, myself, at extended care programs for school holidays?

I remember swinging as high as possible on my elementary school's pea gravel-covered play ground and mustering the courage (and conformity) to jump off at the highest point (and the couple of rolled ankles that came with it).

I remember the D.I.L.F., I knew at the end of college, who made an embarrassing and pointed remark to me when I shared my excitement with his young daughters about "swinging."  Two different, possibly enjoyable, activities. All. To. Gether.

I used to have a video from an old cell phone on which I'm swinging in a park behind the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago.  It was the start of spring.  Something had me overjoyed, whether it was the return of obvious natural life to the previously ice covered city, or something else, I don't know.  In the video the viewer sees feet, mine, lifting out straight as the view rises up above the ground and then the feet disappear and only my knees, and maybe toes, show as the ground viscerally comes up closer.  There are buds on the trees and there's a shot of the sky, pastel blue and crisp looking.

New Year's Even 2009 - 10.  Hadj and I went to the Twanoh State Park in Union for evening time admiration of the full moon in the misting, mild winter.  We went to the two swings and - now I don't know if this is two memories combined, or if I said this that night, but - I declared a
Good Life Rule to Live By: 
Always swing when swinging is available.  

I aught to be able to get more adjusted to my feet leaving the ground and to flying through the air under my own power if I remember that adage.

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