Between The Ground And The Sky

I love the swings.

“Higher!” I would yell to my dad, whose job it was to keep the swing in motion. At its highest—the moment before it yielded to gravity—hands firmly holding the chains and, without fear, I would lie back, one with the clouds.

One of my favorite things to do was to jump off the swings, somewhere between the ground and sky, sailing through the air, the thrill of the flight outweighing any scrapes or bruises that came with the landing.

While reflecting on my love for swings, I could see how their movement mirrors the ups and downs of life. The peaks, where everything feels possible, the lows, where nothing does, and the leaps or risks we take, with unpredictable landings that often determine whether we’ll try again.

As in life, swing sets that offer a smooth ride are anchored deep in the ground with cement. But if the set isn’t grounded, the whole thing can wobble and shake.

When life seems unsteady, my instinct is to get organized, create charts, make lists, hoping structure will fix the chaos, desperate to rope in the uncontrollable.

But maybe what’s needed isn’t more control, but rhythm. A steady back-and-forth can keep us centered when we swing low—and simple enough to help us rise again.

My daughter, Caroline, went to China one summer to teach school. After just one a day in Beijing, she became ill and, within days, was admitted to the hospital. The doctors diagnosed and treated the problem, and she was able to continue teaching.

A few months later, I received the bill—along with the discharge instructions: 

“Avoid catching a cold, keep a happy mood, eat a prudent diet, drink more water, and do proper exercise.”

Just as swinging is powered by the simple bending and straightening of our legs and a pull or push on the chains, something as basic as those discharge instructions can keep us anchored. Quiet, repeatable motions help us hold onto the perspective the highs give us, instead of staying stuck in the limited view of the lows.

I was introduced to the phrase,  “Up and not crying,”  a standard response to the question, “How are you?” in Sweden.

That phrase not only reflects a broader attitude of endurance and resilience. It’s a reminder that not every day is going to be a  “Sunshine Day”—and not every bad day is forever. 

Our limiting beliefs can prevent us from recognizing the significance of the simple parts of life, and too often, we allow inaccurate measures to define our progress.

I was reminded of this truth after a long day of writing.  A quick review of my word count showed I had deleted more words than were written.   Feelings of defeat replaced any sense of achievement.

But when I looked closer, I realized I had written and edited two chapters. More importantly, I had enjoyed my day. Both of those accomplishments were more accurate and meaningful markers of success than an arbitrary word count. When we make things more complicated than they need to be, we can feel our moorings shake and wobble—like an unanchored swing set.

I also learned that sometimes, in the process of deleting, we can find clarity. It’s a kind of leap—letting go of what feels safe to reach something better.

It took me a moment to see that if I hadn’t deleted what was unnecessary, the words would have only gotten in the way of the story.

My example involves writing, but the act of prioritizing and letting go of the negative things that cause uncertainty applies to other areas of life. It might be ideas, expectations, or old narratives about how life is supposed to be. Letting go of those can bring stability and the clarity we need to move forward.

I once read an anecdote about a college student taking an English class. When his professor asked why everything he wrote was so dark, dank, and negative, the student replied, “Life is a junkyard.”

“Okay, life is a junkyard," the teacher responded, "But I used to work in a junkyard. And in May, up through the jagged holes of rusted fenders, daisies would grow—yellow and white and beautiful.”

God didn’t create for us a life of certainty, but one of evolving perspectives, always in motion—shifting skies, dizzying highs, sudden lows, thrilling leaps, and the occasional fall.

I believe the key is to keep swinging—to find rhythm, a balance between the highs and the lows. And, when something needs to change, finding the courage to leap, even if the landing comes with some bruises and scraped knees. Because in the movement of the swings, the leaps, the process of falling, and getting back up, there is beauty, maybe not despite it all, but because of it.

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 Sources:

Secrets of Successful Fiction by Robert Newton Peck

"Sunshine Day" written by Steve McCarthy and performed by The Kids from the Brady Bunch (1972)