When I was little we had an old green swing set in the back yard. Nothing fancy. But it was sturdy and it was there for years. Behind the church, across the street from my grandparent’s house, was a set of metal bars used for hanging and swinging on. And of course there were trees, an old pine tree a few houses up from ours, trees behind our neighbor’s garages, some right above where our trash cans were kept.
For some reason, when I was alone, I would go to one of these spots.
And hang upside down.
I don’t know why.
I wasn’t doing flips and swings.
I just hung there, upside down.
I think I was thinking. Or not thinking.
I remember the peacefulness of it. Probably because I was alone, which wasn’t often. But I associate the memory of hanging upside down in these spots, with comfort and peace.
I think I need to think some more. Or not. Hanging upside down. From a tree.