Sometimes, that Adirondack Lake or mountain hike are out of reach because of responsibility or money. Sometimes a walk or our backyards will tide us over until travel is possible. “The Art of the Hammock” is just that, a story, or rather advice about, a ridiculous “anti-escape” from regular life.
To practice the art of the hammock, one must begin with trees. It sounds ridiculous, but it took me two years of studying the woods and walking the perimeters of my pond, cutting brush as tall as my shoulders, until I found the perfectly spaced, perfectly sized, perfectly oriented trees near the water. Mine were cherry, thick-skinned and thin-leafed.
I spent days making a clearing for a view of the pond. When finished, I screwed the j-hook and eye into one tree, then the other. Then stretched my hammock into place. It was a Goldilocks fit. I loved it for hours, then, as night closed over the pond, I packed it up and turned toward home until I could visit again. That’s when a bank beaver pulled his silky secret body from the water, sniffed around, and made quick work of one of my new hammock trees.
When I returned the next morning, I saw what the little devil had done. I swore and started to look for the beast. I’m not sure what I would have done had I found him, but I meant to give him a good piece of my mind. What’s worse is when I examined the tree, I found the creature never nipped a single branch, never nibbled a single leaf, never sent a sliver of sorry my direction, and to boot, he felled the j-hook and eye toward the ground. The tree was so large, I could not roll it over to retrieve my hardware. And since it was near the end of fall, I had to wait until the following spring for my husband to chainsaw it into manageable chunks before I could roll it over and retrieve it. Two years it took me to find the perfect trees, and in a single night, that beaver killed my hammock season for another eight months. Maybe beginning with making sure there are no beavers living nearby is a better place to start. And then after that, start with the trees.
Or maybe you should begin with the view. Look around. What do you see that fills you with peace? Then look up: Is there blue sky? Sun glowing green through the crowns of trees before dusk? A sunrise? A sunset? Golden ripples dancing polka dots of light, reflecting on the underbellies of leaves? Geese, a blue heron in the early morning mist? A cedar waxwing stealing spider webs to build a nest. Is there a pond with jumping fish or feather pillow clouds in its reflection? Whatever the view, it should make your veins bubble with happiness.
To be sure of your view, you must lie down. Get leaves in your hair, dirt on your back. You’ll need to breathe deep with your eyes wide open and then closed, too, to see with your ears, to know if that spot is really the spot. What does the earth say to you there? What does the wind whisper? The birds? They should say something like This is love, or You are home.
Or rather, you might want to start with the hammock itself. My first hammock (the one the beaver allowed only one use) was not adjustable. So lesson learned, not just any hammock will do. In fact, ones with seatbelt straps that hug the trunks of trees are better, less damaging to their hearts and therefore less damaging to your own. And, anyway, aren’t hugs good remedies for just about anything? Strap hammocks are, of course, clearly movable, so you can adjust your setting as your mood fits, too. It makes the perfectly distanced trees an irrelevant consideration unless you are in the alpine regions of your state or are in a field and trees are scarce to begin with. In that case, you’ll need one with a metal or wooden frame.
A hammock needs to be made of heavy cotton fibre tightly woven so miggies can’t light on your skin through the fabric. It should mould to your curves and sharp edges without knots digging. It should have a little weight to it, but the fabric shouldn’t make you sweat, and if you like the boho life, you should consider purchasing one with tatted tassels that swing with you and the wind. Maybe it will come with a matching pillow.
And size does matter when concerned with hammocks. It should be double-sized, big enough to catch the wind when you are not in it like a sail, and big enough to sit in like a swing or share with a child for an afternoon nap. You should be able to sit upright and converse with the owls just before evening or whisper secrets with a friend or nuzzle the neck of your lover before dusk. It should be big enough so you have room to move or curl up with a quiet day as if in a cocoon away from a cool wind or the bright sun or the woes of work, and maybe–no, definitely–with a new book to hide yourself in between the pages.
You don’t want to hang your hammock too taut. You don’t want it to be another cutting board of life. You need just the right slack so your head rests above your waist, and so do your feet. If slack enough, a strong wind might rock you like a lullaby–without the bough-breaking part of the Mother Goose song, of course.
Next, find wind chimes you love, something that resonates, that rings in your heart when you hear it. Maybe one that is long-belled and low, or one that tinkles like fairies dancing on the edge of a crystal goblet or a gnome stomping the rim of a tin cup. Maybe the stringed capiz seashells your grandmother sent you for Christmas from Florida last winter would work. Whatever sound the chimes make, they should be as soothing as Bach’s “Celebrated Air” or Brahms’ “Cradle Song” or Pachelbel’s “Canon in D,” the trees, the violins of the breeze.
You might add a ribbon windsock. Its twirly happiness should be visible with little effort through sleepy eyes or wide-open awe from where you recline. Or perhaps prayer flags, fluttering their wishes for the world, will do. They just can’t block any view of water if you have one.
A good pushing stick is also a requirement, preferably a sturdy windfall, but an aluminium walking pole will work or a long bamboo garden stake. Even a piece of rope tied to another tree that you can use to pull yourself to sleep would do the job. You must let the breeze be a lullaby, too, and the sun, a warm embrace while you nap.
Finally, a piece of stove-length wood in its full round, tipped on end to serve as a table for your water with lemon. A pen, a notebook are musts as well. They should be within easy reach. The same should be said for your dog, if you have one, who should feel free to lick your hand when you toss it over the edge of your hammock or who might nudge you for a scratch behind his ear. Maybe your dog could join you in the hammock if he isn’t a lummox like my 90-pound lab who sometimes leaves his little bean-brain in places where he can’t find it.
Regardless of the dog or your newly empty nest at home, or the sudden car horn that bleats across the way or the gaggle of geese who blunder-splash into your pond or your child who scrapes his knee and comes crying . . . Regardless of these eventual things, it is in the moments before, when you have gathered and prepared and wrapped yourself into your chrysalis, where you’ve twisted and turned and snuggled deep into your hammock’s heavy folds–it is then, that you can let go and master the art of the hammock, tassels swaying slow and even with your breathing, eyes in the leafy and dreamy sky. It is then that you can rest amid the birds and the music of the trees and your own warm sighing. For in those quiet moments in the hammock, the world will be well–at least for a little while–and you can fold up and tuck that feeling away for later when you need it most.
