Dust swirls in the beams of light streaming in from the top of the barn. The big bumble bees that have their nest in the rafters buzz happily. The smell of earth permeates everything. It smells like a second home.
I leave little footprints in the dirt floor as I enter through the big sliding doors. I walk with the easy kind of confidence that seems to be present most in children before social pressures and expectations have really set in. I follow my well-worn path to my favorite room in the barn: Papaw's tool room.
There's no proper door to this room of the barn. There is simply a piece of wood slid into place over the opening "to keep the critters out." I move the wood out of the way and stretch my little legs up to climb and clammer over the tall ledge and into the room.
This room is a treasure trove of gadgets and gizmos that only Papaw knows the real purpose of and I only guess at and play with. The back wall has a menagerie of different tools hanging from pegs. I know where the hammer and nails are, and Papaw has taught me how to not catch my fingers when I play with those. But the hammer isn't what I'm after today. Today, I'm going after my favorite thing in the entire barn.
I turn to the left of the doorway and look up. There on a big metal hook hangs my joy. That old worn-out rope may not look like much to you, especially with it's taped up ends trying to keep the fraying at bay. But it's everything to me. My favorite "play-pretty" of all found in the barn. On my tippy-toes I reach up and pull it down with a crooked grin.
The ritual continues seamlessly from here. I jump down from the room's ledge and replace the piece of wood in the doorway. I leave the mysteries and treasures of the barn behind for another day, and make my way outside into the bright sunlight. Rope in hand, I run-skip through the yard to my tree. It's the big tree that overlooks Papaw and Gram's house. It's the tree that has the dirt patch underneath where I make mudpies when it rains. And it's the tree I swing on.
I peer up into the branches and find the strong bough that hangs out on the right side. I rear back and with all my might I sling the end of the rope up and up and up... 'til it passes the bough and falls again on the other side. My snaggle-toothed grin widens as I settle the rope into the groove where I've worn the bark down from my past swings. I finish tightening up my loop and stand back to admire my work, my eyes alight with mischief.
It's time. I take a few more steps back and settle my feet into the dirt patch. I position myself like a track-and-field star with one foot ahead of the other and my weight shifted slightly toward my front knee. I grind the toe of my shoe into the dirt with my back foot, gearing up for the mad dash to come and gaining all the leverage I can for the takeoff. I close my eyes, take a breath in, hold it for a moment, and let it out.
My eyes snap open. I run, focused solely on the rope ahead of me. I have it timed out well at this point. I know what spot in the earth is the "sweet spot" for me to leap up into the air to take hold of the rope. And I hit that spot perfectly. I launch myself off the ground and up into the air. I grab hold of the rope and hear the familiar "whoosh" of the wind in my ears as I speed along. My unrestrained laughter rings out on the hillside as I reach the zenith of my rope swing arc.
Perhaps you can think of better ways to spend an afternoon than swinging from tree branches, but for me this is the epitome of freedom.
I'm now 28 years old, and I don't swing in trees anymore. Somewhere along the way I internalized the societal norm and expectation that we stop playing when we are "all grown up." We deem silliness to be "childish." And when we become grown-ups, we leave behind childish things.
I don't mean to make it sound like adulthood is some stern and dour business. There are certain aspects that aren't enjoyable, sure, but it's not all strict and proper. I listen to music that brings me peace. I still watch movies that make me smile. I still laugh and tell jokes. Despite these "playful" kind of moments, however, I must admit that the kind of uninhibited joy I felt swinging from trees is tucked carefully away as a memory of childhood.
How I long to be that child again with those bruised elbows and scraped-up knees. How I long to let my mind race once again, not with anxiety but with wild imagination. How I long to run and jump and swing in the trees...
My Velcro Grandfather used to say, "Inside every man is a boy. If you kill the boy, the man dies." As a 28 year old woman, I am beginning to finally understand what he meant by that saying. We aren't meant to stop playing. We aren't meant to give up fantasy and fun. We aren't meant to stamp down our imaginations and our wishes. We aren't meant to grow up and grow past playfulness.
There comes a time when we all "grow up" and there are certain aspects of childhood that we inevitably leave behind. But playing shouldn't be one of them. I believe that there is a kind of holiness to silliness. There is an air of sanctity to laughing without a care in the world. I believe that children understand this, and they encounter the Holy One in ways we adults don't when they play while we keep up business-as-usual.
Maybe this is why Jesus said we must be like little children to enter the Reign of God.
What if kids have it right where we adults have it confused? What if we let go of our self-absorbed societal norms and pressures and acted a little silly every now and then? What's the worst that could happen? Maybe some will see us as fools, but I wonder if in our "foolishness" we will find that we are truly living.
So read that fairytale book. Color outside the lines with colors that don't match. Create something with that beautiful imagination of yours. Do the things that bring you joy. Laugh until you cry. And maybe, just maybe, you'll discover that the kid you so wish to be once again never really left you. There's a child inside all of us, after all, still waiting to swing in trees.
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