Lorenz and Friends

Put life on hold with a swing
in the hammock

We were attending a big party at a beautiful home on Wisconsin's Lake Geneva when I saw it swaying slightly in the breeze: an inviting, big-enough-for-two hammock. I slipped in gently, relaxed a moment, then hurried back to the party.

Hurried. My whole life seemed hurried. Every minute of every day seemed pre-programmed. My whole body felt tense, yet I still hurried to work, then rushed home to take the children to baseball games, play practice and music lessons, then home to throw clothes into the washer.

I hurried with my teen-agers to the orthodontist, the dentist, then shopping so I could hurry home to fix supper. After dinner I'd even hurry through a storybook with my 4-year-old so I could get down to my writing room to finish writing an article an editor wanted.

The speed with which life was engulfing me was giving me headaches. It seemed that every minute of every day was programmed. My back ached, my whole body felt tense, yet I still hurried to work, hurried home, raced to my evening class and flopped into bed at night, too exhausted to even think.

That hammock started haunting me. Wouldn't it be nice ... ? I started to dream big dreams, but then I'd wonder if I could find time to relax in it if I bought one. Then one day, while waiting for my teens at the orthodontist, I saw an ad for a hammock just like the one we'd seen at the lake. On a healthy impulse, I ordered one.

When it arrived, my son Michael, age 12, and I drilled holes in two back yard trees and mounted the screws and hooks that would support this new luxury. We did a fine job and the hammock looked marvelous and inviting.

Michael and I rewarded our efforts with an inaugural rest. Both of us plopped into the double-wide macramé rope hammock and chatted about what a great job we did. And we talked about other projects we might tackle together. A canvas swing in that tree over there? A small fence around the garden? We talked about school and then recaptured the excitement of the home run he'd hit the day before.

Then Andrew, age 4, came bounding out of the house with unbridled enthusiasm for his first "ride." Michael gave up his spot and Andrew climbed aboard.

The two of us stared at the leaves above us. "Mommy," Andrew giggled, "look at that squirrel!" We watched it scurry from limb to limb.

Then silence for a few minutes. I closed my eyes. A breeze was rocking me toward slumber. But not Andrew. "You know, Mom, I think those clouds are moving. There's one up there that looks like Dumbo.

See the trunk?"

"Uhhh, hummm," I answered, almost unconsciously.

Andrew continued to chatter, but his little body hardly moved from the curves of my own as we snuggled in the hammock.

An hour later, I realized that I was, for the first time all summer, relaxing. Totally, completely relaxed. My headache was gone. Not only had the hammock provided a place to rest, it was the perfect place to talk to the children one-on-one. A place to open our heart, to grow closer, and to really listen.

That evening, Julia, age 13, spent an hour in the hammock reading. Next, 15-year-old Jeanne plopped sideways in it to observe a colony of ants building a house directly underneath the hammock.

The next day when I returned from work, I walked right past the washing machine, grabbed a book I'd been trying to finish for over a year and headed for you-know-where. It's funny how some rope, two wooden supports and a couple of good strong trees can change your life. Best prescription I ever took.

(Lorenz is an internationally known author of two books and hundreds of true stories published many magazines, anthologies and "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books.)