What Lives on Swings?

What lives on swings? A short plank of wood. Or a plastic seat, graffitied. Two lengths of chain or well-knotted rope, and the familiar ee-ore of protesting joints above. Unremarkable. But there they are. Swings. Most parks have a least one set and they are never short of sitters waiting their turn to swing their legs.

Funny that something so simple should be home to such magic...

Childhood lives on swings.

Imagination. Pure and unbridled. Go on, tell me you were never Superman or Wonder Woman. Tell me you never joined the birds that flew above you or captained a rocket ship to the moon. Sometimes I was just the princess with flying hair. Golden hair. Admired and loved.

In my mind I was lots of things and many people, and all of them saved me from the ground, from the falling of my life.

Freedom lives on swings.

Movement. Lullaby rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. I was never stuck, even if I was going nowhere. In my mind I was lots of places, all them involved motion, and all of them saved me from the ground and from the monotony of gravity.

Music lives on swings.

Emotions. Things that I felt and could give voice too. Even if it was off key and never heard by any ears but my own. I sang on the swing set in my back yard and I loved the feeling. I was brave enough to be heard when the wind was rushing past my cheeks and the motion never stopped. I sang anything and everything. Partial lyrics. Nursery rhymes. And Sunday School songs. But my favourites were the ones I made up. Music that told its own story. Songs my heart beat to, and gave my soul eyes.

In my mind I was singing straight to my God, to my little sister to my hopes and dreams, and all of them saved me from the ground and the silence of not being seen.

Swings are simple things. But sometimes life just needs a bit of simple swinging.

Now I am grown, I still love swings. I beg my children to whoosh to and fro with me, so I don't look like the woman who should have stopped swinging a long time ago. I huddle my toddler on my lap and, once again, I am Superwoman.

My writing desk is just the same. A swing set for my mind. A plank of wood. White with four legs. Nothing auspicious. Simple. I share it with my kids. The computer pushed to one side the glue stick, crayons, remote control for the robot, paper like confetti in every colour and size and the odd toy car or alien character staring back at me while I type. At night, I don't clean away every sign of my children. I let these things sit around me. This is my playground. And I remember the swings.

Childhood. Freedom. Movement. And music. When my writing looks like that I know my work as a writer is done. And today I noticed, my desk is not in the middle of this room... and neither is my writing.

Stephen King said it best.

"It starts like this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down to write remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support system for art. It is the other way around."

Simple.

When I live outside the writing, the writing lives.

Swings. And swinging for the mind...

What about you? Where do you write? Is your desk a swing set, nice and simple? Yet magic without confines? What does where you write say about your writing or who you are as a writer?

Do you remember how to swing?

PS- sorry I was not on many blogs yesterday. I had a mad day and lost all time... I'll be there today. I missed reading you guys :)

[image courtesy]