Little Wisdoms and The Doorway of Play
Perceptions of a Kindergartener
I was recently approached by a Kindergartener who, interrupting her own play, asked me who I was, stating succinctly she’d never seen me before. I like relationships that start with the truth.
About ten minutes later she returns with a “card” she’d made for me. Inside was a beautifully drawn heart with a happy face and underneath is said: “To My Besty.”
“I chose the colors you looked like you would like.” (Wonderfully specific. She put thought in to this. She was right by the way.) She made my day. I was chosen as a “besty”. Also, it was my first day so I say thank you, Holy Spirit. Messages from God come especially through children. Why shouldn’t I believe that God had the message for me on that day: “You’re my besty” and I welcome you here.
I thought that until yesterday when she walked up again only to ask me how old I was. I told her I’d never tell. Then I made the classic rookie mistake:
“How old do I look?”
Never ask this question in any setting. You will inevitably be, at best, disappointed by the answer, or at worst, bitch-slapped into humble reckoning. I received the latter with her (too) quick guess:
“69?”
“What?! You think I look 69? 69????!!!”
What devilry has overtaken this innocent lamb?
Mercifully, another child (which, I must add, had much more refined discernment) interjected with the ABSOLUTE TRUTH:
“23?”
“YES. YES,” I stated emphatically as I boldfaced lied to this cherub, “I am TWENTY-THREE years old!”
The spirit moves where it will and it apparently moved onward to another young spark who could clearly glean my youthful rosy glow.
But as we parted my conscience started to prick. So I allowed, “I’m somewhere in between 23 and 69.”
We left it at that. I didn’t leave them with a lie.
69?…Harumph. Perhaps I’d lost sleep the night before. Also, my mother would have pinched me if she heard me asking an adult their age. The impertinence.
Also…kids. I love them. It’s very hard to not chuckle. I realize not everyone has that grace with children. I suppose since my Dad pointed a swift finger in my face when I was six because I was staring at this work colleague who was my height (he was a dwarf), I have a little more patience in these settings. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should.
Words of Wisdom From the Guy at Wegman’s
I ran to the store before a networking session to get some raspberry kiffles and some cash back and, in the hazy morning hours, chose the self check with the tiny sign that said “no cash back” that I didn’t see until the transaction was final. Ugh. I go to the customer service desk to return the kiffles thinking I could repurchase them and get my needed cash. The Wegmans’ Guy, with ease, happily tells me that it’s all not necessary and he can just give me cash from my card. I apologize for not reading the sign well…or at all. He replies that there are too many signs everywhere so no one reads them. Grace. (also, true.) It was a very nice interaction. (He’s a good pick for the morning shift.) I thank him and on my way out he offers, “Good luck being human!”
He must have thought I needed it.
But, yes. Human is HARD. Sometimes it’s so nice just to hear that in varying word combos and that the other humans around you know it, too.
And for that matter, with all this AI* brain rotting nonsense and recent White House robot teacher introductions – perhaps we do all need it. The luck. At being…human. Yikes.
So I pass this to you this Sunday (or whenever you may be coming across this story.)
Good luck being human today.
The Doorway of Play
The children wanted a story read, but we didn’t have a book. Little did they know that this was my wheelhouse. It’s more theirs (though they do it so naturally – what is there to know about it? They just do.)
So I blurted out that we would have to read an “invisible story” ( I made that up.) I took my hands and “opened” an invisible book. And we were off.
There is a classic rule in improvisation – the rule of “yes”. It is very hard to get a story off the ground if you state that the character began to float in a pink puddle upward and your partner (or your inner negative chatterbox) slams the book shut with an emphatic “no”, “that’s not what happened”, “no it can’t”, “the puddle was a bubble and was orange, not pink”… (that is to say when you are in a group… changing your mind as you formulate where your character is going in your writing is another thing entirely. Also, stay open.) Keep the river flowing.
Young children are positively stellar at saying “yes” in the improvisation arena. “Yes” is not only to say “go forth” it is also to say “go play”.
For play is the opposite of depression.**
To combat depression is to take action, (even if that action is to walk out the front door and feel the grass again on your bare feet), in a setting that feels like play to you. (It is quite a personal choice, but you know what this is for you. If you don’t, start investigating.)
The Storyteller’s Rite (my new workshop) is very much about this idea. How do we get to the heart of our sacred stories (even the sad or difficult sacred) through the doorway called Play?
Step One: Say Yes.
Step Two? Say “and”.
Go ahead. Just think of something playful you love. Now say “yes”. Be with that.
Now, say “and”….
Did you just feel the cool breeze of the door opening?
It’s time to walk through.