On Play
A three-year-old, a rubber ball, and the power of presence.
After about 20 minutes, I became bored throwing the ball and watching it tumble back down. I'd arrived at my friend Victoria's home about 35 minutes prior, and after hugs and greetings, I wedged myself to the right of the front door with legs extended between the baseboard heat and the bottom riser of the staircase. I'd come over to entertain her eldest, Zion, while she and her husband, Savon, continued to unpack. They'd recently moved into a new home and were now only a 15-minute drive from where I resided.
Being an aunt is incredible, and I relish all the in-person connections I get with their littles. Not just because Vic, Savon, and I go back to our college days at Rutgers but because children teach us so much more about life than we could ever teach them. Adults offer knowledge. Kids intuitively impart wisdom.
As the overachiever I am, I came prepared. I'd brought a bag of art supplies that Zion wanted nothing to do with. The collection was housed in a transparent bag for ease of access and ready temptation but stayed by the door until I gathered my things to leave.
He was more interested in his home's newfound staircase, and I happily joined him as he was mid-play upon my arrival. A small rubber basketball held his full attention. While stationed at the bottom of the stairs, he'd throw the ball toward the second floor and watch its erratic pattern of descent. After about two throws, it perpetually became "my turn ."He preferred the ball's dynamic route during my go versus his arm's shorter throws.
I suggested we play cars. I was met with a no.
I again reminded him I brought markers and offered up coloring, no.
I wondered out loud what Uncle Phil was doing in the kitchen and prompted us to see. Still, no.
His seemingly endless toddler energy and enthusiasm thwarted every attempt. When I launched it to the upper landing, those fresh three-year-old knees had no problem running up and down the stairs to retrieve the ball. His pursuit was a brief break from throwing, but a reprieve, nonetheless. He couldn't be bothered with the thought that my arms were tiring. Or that my joints are, quite literally, ten times older than his.
After each release, I studied him. The difference in our approach finally hit me.
He focused on the fall process, the bounce, slide, and rolls down each step. I only saw the result—the imminence of the fall itself.
He saw the unpredictable journey the ball might take down the stairs. I saw the mundanity of gravity doing its thing.
He was present and in the moment, and I was not.
When I arched my release, and the ball slowly bounced down each step, he exclaimed. He was less impressed when I forcefully threw it so it ricocheted and returned to my grasp. He enjoyed it when I lobbed the ball gently on the railing, and it slid back down to meet us.
I made a game of it within myself. Where I was once nearing boredom at the repetition, I saw it as a path to mastery.
Could I launch it so it would bounce down every step on the return? What's the highest riser I could aim at without the ball returning off-course? And at what angle should I hit the top wall so it veers off course even more and travels down the hallway, buying me an even longer break?
My pint-sized pal reminded me repetition is an opportunity to let the space between where you are and your expertise to inspire you. Everything, even play, and especially our life's work, be it research, tending to others, or writing, can feel like a cycle of rinse and repeat. But approaching pursuits as a playground, an experiment of how to share one's gifts with others, removes at least some of the pressure of showing up. We're all riding a rock traveling through space anyway. We could make the journey a pleasurable one.
How are you taking steps to be more present and bring more pleasure into your day-to-day? Listening to music where possible, taking yoga breaks, and making things a game helps me tremendously. Let me know what works for you.
Until next week,
R.
A great read that I continue to revisit. Zion teaches us all a lesson in enjoying the present. What an innocent and quiet mindset.