It arrived yesterday. We threw the old one away – left too long hanging through too many rains. This one is two-toned green and made of recycled materials – trash repurposed for relaxation. 

I strap it between the two trees in our side yard alongside the fence we share with our neighbors’ bouncing terrier gone hoarse from barking.

Like so many things on the list it remained unchecked because of more pressing tasks: laundry, the orthodontist, sawing and stacking the tree that fell last winter, mowing the lawn, cleaning the bathroom, vacuuming, grocery shopping, returning a too-small swimsuit, walking the dog, going to the dump, dropping the twins off at hockey, picking the twins up at hockey, cleaning the windows, making dinner, doing the dishes . . . you know . . . the list.

Measured and balanced, I sit carefully in the middle, then: lift both legs, tuck knees tight, quarter twist left, back arched high, shoulders big, arms extend over head, then out ninety degrees and hold steady like gliding wings. Done. Checked off the list. 

Staring through the branches at the blue summer sky, I feel the gentle sway of the breeze and listen to the leaves whispering among themselves.

But . . . Damn it! I forgot my book, and if only I had an iced drink within arms reach, and a pillow, and my sunglasses, and my phone, and my speakers, and . . . music playing. That would be perfect.

My mind unfolds the list: beds need stripping, dishes are piling, tires need rotating, the grill is low on propane, we are down to our last gallon of milk, I need to finish that article before Tuesday, and our library books are all overdue.

I take a deep breath in. I let a deep breath out. In . .  out. . . in . . . out . . . 

Everything will just have to wait. I close my eyes, stretch my toes, loosen my jaw, and feel gravity’s anchor.
Then a familiar voice calls me from the front yard, aaaaaand . . . back to the list.