Gopher Gulch: It’s hard to actually just play

It was a tough summer since I was still weak from formaldehyde poisoning. I struggled to breathe and promised myself that if I survived, this summer would be devoted entirely to play. It’s surprisingly difficult to give yourself permission to play, so I used the excuse of getting into better physical shape by being active.

Early this summer I had an unpleasant experience nearly all children have. Apparently I was reminded of how children feel so that I might learn the skills necessary for playing.

I was dragged through a crowded wonderland surrounded by people much larger than me. My hand was clutched so hard it hurt, and I trotted to keep up. We passed stilt people 12 feet tall, gnomes and fairies and elves. But I didn’t have a chance to look at them or play with them.

“Don’t let go, or I’ll never find you,” I was told. There were wonderful smells and music, but I wasn’t allowed to explore them. There’s not a lot of difference between being a child and an elder when you live in a culture where all power rests in those between the ages of 30 and 60.

I began by acquiring a bike, which turned out to be a very good start. I’ve spent days riding around our harbor and several others along the coast. Each day I ride a little farther and breathe a little deeper. When I wear out, I flop on the ground and make pictures in the clouds or roll over and follow a bug through the grass.

I paint with blackberries, sometimes on myself, hum tunelessly and dribble spit through dry, hollow grass. My playmates fly and hop, crawl and climb and tunnel.

People begin to shape children into little adults at a very young age, and play is frowned upon unless it accomplishes something. We’re supposed to “play to win,” and by the time we’re 5, our natural way of being in the world is confined to recess.

Instead of rolling around on the ground and giggling, discovering how many different ways there are to go up and down a playground slide, kids are helmeted, padded and taught to obey the rules of activities invented by adults. Winning counts.

But winning isn’t my goal. In Margery Williams’ “The Velveteen Rabbit,” the Skin Horse says to the Rabbit, “Generally, by the time you’re Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.”

I’m beginning to feel Real.