Rating: NNNNNNothing I've encountered except poetry is quite like play. In the July sun, the children in the courtyard under.
Nothing I’ve encountered except poetry is quite like play. In the July sun, the children in the courtyard under the giant sycamores are airing their sillies, giggling, shouting, making eerie, unsettling kid sounds.
It’s kind of a special, lyric state that lets things slip a bit, unhooking the more immediate halters of the local reality so that some of the “larger than life” can shine through.
I think playing may be “of god,” or shall we say “divine’ — a remnant of some pre-life, numinous way of being that only children still remember.
Even fish do it, chasing sun beams. Birds play in the sky. Dogs gambol. When kids enter this state of zoned-out magic, whether it’s with dolls or little men in tiny vehicles, with mock swords or imaginary musical instruments, they’re at one with the fundamental nature of the universe, jiving with the play of atoms in matter.
No one who plays is worrying about being in the moment or the meaning of life.
It’s not just for kids. Adults need to step out of time, too. There’s too much work and worry in the world.
Forget boot camps. Let’s build play centres — more trees, ponds, jungle gyms and horses for all.
An economy, an environment, of play.
We are fools to pull children from their fancies because we have some pragmatic, pressing plans for them. There are decades and decades after childhood to be dull and busy and depressed.
So let’s be wise and generous. Let this be the first of a series of a thousand official summers of play.