The Hammock

During my guided meditation session this morning, the practitioner urged me to use my breath like a hammock, allowing my mind to swing in and out on it. I flashed immediately to the rope hammock that hung between two oak trees in our yard in Clinton. When I was 8, 9, 10 and beyond, I would swing for hours in that hammock, looking up into the dappled undersides of the leaves until I forgot the ground. Swinging has always been transporting for me: back and forth on a swingset, around and around on a tire swing, to and fro in a hammock. This hammock, in particular, felt safe as well as magical. The yard at our Clinton house was my habitat, containing my clubhouse, the hammock bower, the red maple that I climbed, the flower beds that colored the borders, the grape arbor that gave me shade. There were open spots, hidden spots, sunny spots, shaded spots, spots with animals, spots with colors, spots with grass. I knew the contours and shapes. It was my place, more than any other place had been. As I swung in the hammock, I felt guarded and free at the same time. Today I can see that I also felt very very lonely. I swung in the hammock alone. I gazed up into the leaves by myself. I dared myself. I rested by myself. I answered myself. Many times, it didn't occur to me to be lonely; this was just how it was. But this morning, as I sat and meditated on the hammock, I began to cry. A deep sadness welled up in me and I recognized how lonely and singular I had felt, growing up in a step-family with sisters who had had a whole life and story before I was born. I always felt somehow apart from them, even while I knew I was loved and loved them in return. Lying on the hammock, I would keep one foot on the ground, propelling myself faster and faster, daring myself to stare into the sun peeking through the leaves until I left the ground behind.