swing jump fall fly

Oh would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
Or would you rather be a fish?
- Bing Crosby, from the song, "Would You Like To Swing On A Star"




When we were very small, someone who loved us picked us up and put us on a swing. We didn't understand what was happening, but we found that we liked it. When we got a little bit bigger we learned the meaning of heights and falling and pain. Perhaps, as someone lifted us up to put us on the swing, we held tight to the hands that held us, afraid of being let go, afraid of falling, but the person who held us said, "It's okay. It will be fun. Trust me, see?" So we trusted them. We sat on the swing and let ourselves be pushed skyward. We found that it was delightful.

When we were a little bit older, we ran outside and pointed to the swing because we knew we loved it, and someone who loved us would amiably stand and push us back and forth, back and forth, as we cried, "Higher, higher! Not so high! Yay!"

When we were just a little bit older than that, we would ask, "Would you please come push me on the swing?" The response was different, though just as loving: "You're big enough to push yourself now." So we were shown how to swing ourselves, and after many failed attempts, with flailing arms and legs and exagerated grunts, we finally learned how to work the mechanics of ourselves and move in a way which let us swing back and forth, back and forth. Before long we were masters, scoffing at the days when were babies and had to let someone else push us. We dared ourselves to go higher, higher, to touch a branch with our toe or swing while standing up. We were not afraid of heights. We loved them. We dreamed that if we swung hard enough and high enough we just might touch the sky. We thought that if we jumped off our swings that maybe we could fly, up up and away. We saw it all so clearly. So we swung and jumped, again and again, thrilling at the handful of seconds where it felt like flying. Magical. We were told to stop: we were warned of broken limbs and bloody noses. But the danger only made it that much more exciting.

As we swung, we laughed and talked and planned and dreamed and soared. We were amazing and the future was sunrise bright. It was hard to say when we stopped. Most of us couldn't pin-point any particular time. It simply became something we didn't do anymore. A swing - instead of a means of adventure - became a symbol of nostalgia. A time in the past. Just as we had once poohed at the days before we could swing ourselves, we sighed and shook our heads over childhood innocence. Those bygone times. Though we may not have really realized it, when we stopped swinging we started becoming afraid of falling. Pain took on a whole new and very real definition.

Yet just like before we were warned about what would happen if we fell, and we ignored the cautionary words until we actually did fall. Once we did, once we understood, we learned how to mask our fears. We learned how to masquerade as imperviable, bold, strong creatures. Before, if we scraped our knees we would cry unashamedly and run to someone who loved us for a kiss and a band-aid. Now, if we scrape our hearts, we cry secretly, quietly treating our wounds with lullaby-like promises. Call it self-defense, or cultural, or a way of processing and coping. Whatever it is, it gets us by. But of course, the view is too enchanting, the hope of flying is too heady for us to walk away from it all together. But for the most part we have become more cautious. We hold on tighter. We plan out our landings in advance. Sometimes, as we once more take up with love and hope and trust ourselves to those divine but often fickle arms, we still fall anyway. Sometimes we land on our feet. Sometimes, we actually fly. We are amazing: soaring into a bright future once more.


Every now and then I'll steal over to a swing set, sit down, and begin to swing back and forth, higher and higher. Maybe I'll jump and maybe I won't, but as I swing I'm not afraid. As I put myself out there and go for it, I'm delighted and thrilled and tingling in a good way. I can feel someone smiling at me and saying, "It's okay. It will be alright. Trust me, see?" I'll close my eyes, smile, and say, "Okay."