Sometimes I’m given moments like this one: when I wonder if all the internal “problems” we have in life can be simmered down into the single explanation of not being able to play anymore.
Or perhaps “able to” isn’t the right wording— but that we don’t think we’re able to. Play. Most of the things that we do, we do with some sense of seriousness (Or is it just me?).
Automatons
Of course there’s work and cleaning and chores. There’s the minor logistics to check off the to-do list of any given day for the day to be considered done, and for us to be validated as good rent-paying, tax-abiding people. A bona-fide decent human cleared to advance onto Santa’s nice list of those going to heaven (or is that just my upbringing?).
The happy things, too, about life are determined for us. We exercise because it’s good for us. We have ambitions to make ourselves into better people. We do “self care.”
As adults, we no longer have the space to choose with utter disregard what we’d like to do with our time, all the time. We go to meet people in the places where people meet people. We put on the television show that everyone else is watching. We have set periods of the day to scroll through apps that relax us. We’re attracted to the outfits, songs, and lingo that the masses are attracted to because some wealthy people have bought up enough of our attention for us to get curious and then contented enough. We have safe ways to mute our brains, for a little while, of the responsibility. (Do others have no issue with this, or is it just me?)
It’s funny to watch myself slip into patterns of survival and homeostasis— to view myself as just another animal in the pile of humanity explained by Anthropology, Philosophy, Psychology. To watch the show. To choose not to choose, because it’s easier and I’m tired. To lock myself into what I’m led to hope will be comfortable and will help.
And then something adjusts. A sentence from a conversation sticks with me, and I pull myself out of my mind enough to realize I’d left it that way. I stretch into enough awareness to make a change before reclining back into routine. I draw a line around my survival to remind myself that I am living. This is the difference between following fear and following love.
Why I thought about this in the first place
Play happened for me today. I was thinking about what I had to do for the rest of the day— write to stay committed to my goal, figure out travel home for Christmas, do some work to prepare for work tomorrow, do yoga, cook, get to bed on time. Then, I got an idea. It was an idea for a gift I could make, and I abandoned my whole to-do list (for a moment, for an hour or two) for it. I considered designing it on the computer, but even that felt like work. Instead, I took out paper and markers. I’ve always got coloring supplies on hand, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used them. I turned the world and its problems away in a way that opened my mind all the way rather than chronically keeping it a little closed to maintain functionality.
No Revolutionary
Coming to this realization — that play is what’s missing from adulthood— is embarrassing for me to admit. I would expect that anyone older would immediately age me down for stating such obvious truths.
But this truth, like any, is not new. The realization is simply coming to me again from a new angle of light; the circumstance of the day, and one in which I’m able to receive it with enough clarity to express it through words (albeit messy ones).
There is no graduating adulthood into something better than. This is it until I’m it, and I expect this realization and others like it will come to me again and again until they’ve aged with me as companions in this life. I like that notion. These moments of clarity are like senses of humor from metaphysical companions, and they’ll bring me more comfort than a television show. As I age, I’d like to spend more time with them: more time with space, creativity, and play. Perhaps it’s as simple as choosing love over fear one decision at a time (real adults, let me know).