By Carolyn Boston, January 14, 2021 — I remember the first time my father took me to the park in the summer and put me on a swing. He placed my small body on the seat and told me to hold on. I can still see the huge metal chains that held the swing and thought the chains looked like the loops I made in kindergarten out of construction paper.
“I’m going to give you a little push,” my father said, “So hold on tight.” At first, I was afraid but the sensation of going back and forth felt pleasant almost like being in a rocking chair but in the air instead. As I glided back and forth I thought of how much fun it was. “Hold your feet up,” my father would say, “So you can go higher.” I was dragging my feet on the ground not realizing that I was limiting my movement in the swing. With a slight small push from my father, I started moving and from that very day, I couldn’t wait to get to the swing again.
The following summer I had grown to the point that I had the strength to move myself back and forward with fewer pushes from my father. Higher and higher I would go. The sun was warm on my face as I soared. I felt like I could fly away. I asked my father to push me higher.
“I don’t want to push you too high,” he’d say, “because I don’t want you to fall.”
The following summer I was a pro. Other kids in the park would challenge me, and I’d have swing races with my friends to see who could go higher. Being in a swing while I soared in the air made all my cares melt away. I could see the backyards of the neighbors in the neighborhood and their roofs. The tree trunks were more visible and beautiful.
I felt like a bird in flight surveying the land.
Unencumbered. My body felt weightless and free.
There was no feeling more blissful to me than being in that swing.
When I think of those times in my adulthood, the memories of my dad teaching me how to swing still works wonders.