Matinée dans le jardin by Diana Malivani
I stared blankly at my friend over Zoom.
It had been a long week, a stressful week, and this question threw me for a loop. I shifted in my seat, picking my brain for an answer to the question he had just asked me:
What do you do for play?
I’ve always said “write,” but now that’s my job. After a full day of writing at my desk, I desperately need to step away from it — I don’t think that counts as play. I would say “read,” but I haven’t been doing as much of that as I would like lately. I would say “work out,” but I do that to achieve specific results, which kind of defeats the purpose of play.
Wait, what is the purpose of play?
Adults tend to push the importance of allowing kids time and space to play because we know its role in social, cognitive, and emotional development. In kid terms, play translates to much-needed space for self-directed learning that will probably link kids to their genius. We see in Henrik Carlson’s Childhoods of exceptional people and Erik Hoel’s Why we stopped making Einsteins that play is a core pillar of a creative, thriving childhood.
But what about play in adulthood?
The evolution of play
Play is defined as engaging in activity “for enjoyment or recreation rather than a serious or practical purpose.”
For adults, play means boosted creativity, reduced stress, improved cognitive function, a strong sense of purpose, and more. When humans play, we’re not striving for a specific outcome, or reaching for a desired result. We’re doing something simply because we want to. The result is that we organically melt into our most creative, imaginative selves.
Instinctively, play is as natural as breathing.
When I was a kid, I remember playing outside into the blue hours of the evening, building entire worlds that didn’t exist: with characters and conflict and tension and a bobbing, weaving storyline. “Go play” was an invitation to immerse myself deeply in the world around me in whatever weird, eccentric ways I wanted.
As I grew older, play took on new and different forms.
Those imaginary worlds came to life on paper as I started to develop my writing voice. I spent hours and hours reading novels late into the night, digesting the mechanics of story. Mostly though, I found the spirit of play in sports and socializing. To play was to hop into the car with friends and drive around our little town, windows down, music blasting on our way to get fro-yo.
While I still technically do these things (although they may be far more few and far between), they feel different somehow. Heavier. In the throes of a chronically busy and infinitely stressed culture, there’s an added layer of guilt that sometimes comes with doing things out of pure and concentrated enjoyment.
In the beginning of our lives, we’re hard-pressed to stop playing. But the older we get, we’re hard-pressed to remember what that play even feels like. The paradox of play is that something as instinctive as breathing eventually becomes foreign to us — and we don’t even realize that we’re losing out on its exponential enrichment.
How “moving the needle” erased play
For better or for worse, we are an outcomes-based culture.
Enamored with self-help, riddled with goal-setting, and addicted to “moving the needle.” By no means are these bad things. Ambition, drive, grit, discipline – these are all essential character traits for a fulfilling and meaningful life.
The problem arises when we don’t know how to turn them off.
Sometimes, it feels like we’re so hard-pressed to meet our personal benchmarks that we accidentally dig ourselves into miserable little ruts. We’re like productivity bots. Our devotion to “moving the needle” cancels out our ability to simply enjoy life.
Think about it. Why plant flowers in the backyard if it doesn’t improve cash flow? Why go for a sunset walk when the stairmaster gives better results? Why do anything, ever, at all, if it doesn’t achieve concrete results?
Hard-wired for efficiency, we’ve developed an instinctive distrust of play (the very thing we used to have an instinct for). “Recreation” can feel like a word that should be whispered. Play feels indulgent and unserious. It feels uncomfortable, like a wet blanket of unproductivity. Somewhere along the way, in the throes of all of our S.M.A.R.T. goals, we have lost touch with one of the most important parts of ourselves.
As I searched for an answer to my friend’s question, options for play swirled in my head.
I want to plant a vegetable garden and a flower garden. Poppies. I want poppies. I want to become unbelievable at latte art. I want to cook every single recipe in every one of my cookbooks. I want to launch a jewelry company. I want to make homemade skincare. I want to design a novel-writing software. I want to bake more. I want to go on picnics. I want to read every single book, in the world, ever. I want, I want, I want.
The difficult truth is that wanting to play does not equate to playing. I realized that I often think about play, but I rarely act on it. It’s often not “practical” enough. So there it sits, boiling somewhere within me, far below the surface like hot lava in a dormant volcano.
“Not much,” I finally answered. “I don’t play much, apparently.”
This, of course, begged the question: How can I begin to play again?
Reconnecting with our inner child
If the first step towards change is typically awareness, then perhaps the second step is reorientation.
Children are spontaneous, adventurous, and fearless, buzzing with the electricity of life and radiating the glow of the present moment. Perhaps reconnecting with our inner child can help rekindle that play instinct in our everyday lives.
Play is like a muscle. Muscles can be both flexed and atrophied. By “flexing” and evoking that sense of insatiable curiosity and childlike intuition, we may start to reap the benefits of play (sparked creativity, low stress, strong sense of fulfillment and purpose) yet again.
That being said, play requires action. Thinking about how much I want to play doesn’t count. I’ve got to carve out the space and time to allow it to take shape. It's a practice of presence and intentionality. Like this video of John Mayer writing a song on a livestream, play takes a sort of “stupid bravery.” It’s fluid, adaptable, and experimental. And the result is basking in the glow of the present.
Why play?
To play is to drink the juice of life.
It’s a way to satiate our souls without the pressure to perform or achieve. Although we often convince ourselves that play, recreation, and enjoyment drain us of our productivity, I believe it feeds back into it tenfold. If our bodies were iPhones, play would be the charger that zapped us back to life.
The cool thing is that this recharge of play looks different for everyone. It can take the form of reading, stargazing, traveling, woodworking, pottery, and a thousand other things. All that matters is you’re not doing it for money or specific results – you’re doing it because it fills you up when your cup is empty.
For me, I think I’ll turn first to my latte art and my intense awe of gardening. On a deeper level, I’ll be working to foster more playfulness into my fiction, using it as a tool to refill my cup rather than empty it. More to come on that later, perhaps.
Like me, you may not even be aware that your life is devoid of play entirely. I’d encourage you to ask yourself that question. What do I do for play? And while you’re reading this, relax your jaw a bit. Don’t worry – you're going to hit your goals. Now, go play.
What I’m thinking about
These lyrics in Seasons by NEEDTOBREATHE:
We won't be here forever
Just a moment then we're through
We can't be shifting with the sands
Like seasons always do
This Substack interview with Luke Burgis. In it, Luke chats openly about how his newsletter writing process is different than his book writing process, but he uses the two to fuel each other.
Any essays by Elle Griffin, who has made it her personal mission to dissect the world of traditional publishing and the creator economy to figure out how writers can make a living with their work. I recently stumbled upon her essay, Writing books is really not a good idea, and was an immediate subscribe. If you write, check her out.
Thanks for reading The G Word.
Until next time,
G
Honestly, I wish Substack would allow us to do reactions like in Google Docs. Some of these paragraphs are just *chef's kiss*. I'll give you one of them:
"Think about it. Why plant flowers in the backyard if it doesn’t improve cash flow? Why go for a sunset walk when the stairmaster gives better results? Why do anything, ever, at all, if it doesn’t achieve concrete results?"
I perceived a slightly different tone in this piece from your other writing (don't know why). It's just as impactful, however. You've got range!
Delightful piece, I was nodding like a bobblehead doll.
Great piece Grace. This one resonated almost painfully.
"Hard-wired for efficiency, we’ve developed an instinctive distrust of play (the very thing we used to have an instinct for). “Recreation” can feel like a word that should be whispered. Play feels indulgent and unserious. It feels uncomfortable, like a wet blanket of unproductivity. Somewhere along the way, in the throes of all of our S.M.A.R.T. goals, we have lost touch with one of the most important parts of ourselves." Very perceptive, very incisive, very unsettling.
I've struggled so much with that 'instinctive distrust'. It's like my mind has developed an allergy to anything without a clear purpose or orientation toward future value. So much so that when we got the Call to Action prompt for WOP my first thought was, I'm tired of action, how about a call to inaction?
I have a hunch that this topic is more important than any of us realize, and I'm interested to hear how your relationship with play develops.