Swinging was my favorite playground activity as a child.  All it took was getting the breath knocked out of me from a fall, to scratch monkey bars off the list.  I was a bit too puny for the chin up bars.

But the swings, I could do.  I'd grip those chains, scramble backwards and hop on- beginning my ascent.

I'd rock back and forth inching higher and higher.  With some height, I'd lean back and point my toes. My feet surpassed the height of the school building. My toes were mere inches away from clouds.

I also remember truly believing if I pointed my toes high enough as I soared upward that I would reach the ultimate swinging goal of flipping over, making a complete circle.

Before I was ever able to reach that goal, Mrs. Phillips our recess lady, would always shout  "Line up" ceasing my soaring sensation

My rhythm broken , I would leave the playground.

 I remember running back to the swings the next day.

It was in the swing that I reached for the heights.

But more than achieving the heights was the simple enjoyment of the ride.  Though moving with speed, there was something soothing in swinging.  It was in the swing that I orchestrated a playground lullaby; rocking to and fro.

I have recently forgotten how to appreciate the rhythm of life.  Life's been a non-stop chore.  Time has been branded with my personal routine; gripping life's chains- wildly kicking to and fro. I swing back and forth cooking and cleaning, drop-offs and pick-ups.

Sickness this past week broke that rhythm. Being grounded helped me to remember how I missed being in the swing of things.

 Life can be experienced as laborious routine or beautiful rhythm.

I choose beautiful rhythm...................................................................my old familiar friend

Now that I'm back in the swing.