How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
~Robert Louis Stevenson “The Swing”
When I was five and
undifferentiated energy, animal spirits,
pent-up desire for the unknown built in me
a head of steam I had
no other way to let off, I ran
at top speed back and forth
end to end of the drawingroom,
bay to French window, shouting–
roaring, really–slamming
deliberately into the rosewood
desk at one end, the shaken
window-frames at the other, till the fit
wore out or some grownup stopped me.
But when I was six I found better means:
on its merry gallows
of dark-green wood my swing, new-built,
awaited my pleasure, I rushed
out to it, pulled the seat
all the way back to get a good start, and
vigorously pumped it up to the highest arc:
my legs were oars, I was rowing a boat in air–
and then, then from the furthest
forward swing of the ropes
I let go and flew!
At large in the unsustaining air,
flew clear over the lawn across
the breadth of the garden
and fell, Icarian, dazed,
among hollyhocks, snapdragons, love-in-a-mist,
and stood up uninjured, ready
to swing and fly over and over.
The need passed as I grew;
the mind took over, devising
paths for that force in me, and the body curled up,
sedentary, glad to be quiet and read and read,
save once in a while, when it demanded
to leap about or to whirl–or later still
to walk swiftly in wind and rain
long and far and into the dusk,
wanting some absolute, some exhaustion.
~Denise Levertov “Animal Spirits”
As children we have energy that demands to be unleashed, whether it is stomping in puddles, climbing trees, running up a hill or swinging as high as possible.
I do remember those times but my feeling of unlimited energy has faded quite a bit over the last decade or so. At some point, I lost my desire to run and jump and twirl and swing and instead, prefer to be tucked in a favorite chair with a book. If not reading, I’m out wandering our fields in all kinds of weather, my mind more energized than my muscles.
Yes, I wish I might soar through the air again, launching from a swing into a nest of flowers. But I would risk breaking something more than my pride. So now, I am content on a porch swing and using my leg oars for a gentle stroll. My days of launching myself into mid-air are over — except in my dreams when I land with a thump, waking up sore all over…
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