Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

Amazing, how such a small, controlled movement on my part puts the swing in motion. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. It’s a matter of moments before my heart rate matches the rhythm of the swing, my spinning thoughts calm, and my tense muscles relax. I’ve entered another realm. A realm where it is enough simply to “be,” leaving the world of “doing” behind.

Grandpa Terry taught me about this other world, on the porch swing that hung from a limb of the horse chestnut that towered over the back yard of Grandma and Grandpa’s house on Grand Avenue. As a 5-year-old, I wanted that swing to buck like a real horse. My legs were too short to get it going on my own. But Grandpa had his own way of making that swing move. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Tiny movements of his feet set that old swing to rocking, until I felt as relaxed as a baby in a cradle. At five, that wasn’t all bad. And when Grandpa let me run my hand over his silvery-smooth crew cut, it was even better.

Two of my favorite perches at Mt. Olivet Retreat Center in Farmington, Minnesota, where my writing group meets every year, involve porch-type swings. One of them overlooks a lake; the other a field of wild flowers and trees whose leaves shimmer and shake in the slightest breeze. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

I came to Mt. Olivet this week determined to finish the young adult novel I’ve been working on for the past two years. That proved impossible when I realized I needed to experience a county fair, complete with horse show, to write the book’s climax. There are no county fairs in the vicinity this week—at least, none with horse shows.

I’ve been here for three days now, and I’ve written nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Frustration has been mounting, little by little, each day. I’m wasting time and money, I growl to myself under my breath.

The swing keeps calling my name. I bring my journal, my Bible, and a cup of tea. I sit. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Two days ago the Spirit met me on the swing overlooking the wildflower field, and whispered sweet nothings in my ear. Sweet sayings that had nothing to do with “producing,” but had everything to do with love.

Today, the Spirit meets me at the swing again. “Look around,” she whispers. “There’s beauty everywhere.” She is right. Swooping dance of yellow finch; raucous laugh of red-headed woodpecker; turkey trotting, waddles wobbling; the thrum of hummingbird wings. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. With each easy pump of the swing my frustration level lowers along with my heartbeat.

“So where’s the frustration?” the Spirit whispers with a smile on her face.

The Holy Spirit knows what I need this week. She knows I need rest and refreshment. She knows I need good friends and unconditional love. She knows I need to be surrounded by beauty. And so she arranged this week, to fill me up with laughter, beauty, friends, and the gentle rhythm of a swing that brings back memories of lazy afternoons on the swing with Grandpa, and the feel of his silvery-soft hair under my five-year-old hands.

Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

Aaaaaaaah…