Do y’all remember how last year near the end of my time in Mexico the swing I’d been delightedly swinging on all month gave way and broke, depositing me into the sand?

Well, I was hoping and praying that they’d have a new swing up before I came back this year, and excitedly they did.

The swing hang there, suspended above the sand from the arm of a gnarly-looking, grandpa of a tree with wispy pine needles. Small roots poke out from the sand next to the swing, and a baby coconut tree is just out of reach from my toes when I’m swinging vigorously. The ocean is maybe two hundred yards away, its placid beauty in several shades of blue and green.

If swinging was an Olympic sport, I think I could probably be a gold medalist.

Swinging is my muse. Swinging makes my thoughts come clearer, my brainstorming more productive, my tiredness go away, and solves problems without me even consciously trying.

I am incredibly thankful for this swing. For this peacefulness. For these memories.