Something that comes to mind frequently, both as I practice and as I teach, is how valuable it is to be able to come to practice in the same frame of mind in which I used to go to the playground: tons of possibilities are there waiting for me, and while some of them will be harder than others, and some might even leave me wimpering and quivery-chinned in a pile on the ground, all of them exist for my pleasure and to make me strong.
When we are children, absolutely everything is a game, and everything is worth exploring, fiddling around with, giggling about. We are still learning to use our bodies, so trying on new tricks is an adventure and something worth sticking with. As adults, I think because we think we ought to have learned all of our tricks by now, we allow ourselves to scold our bodies and brains on the mat in a way that squashes all of the joy right out of practice and would, no doubt, utterly bewilder the children we once were.
The most concentrated educated I ever got in physical discipline as play came when I was in college, and I had the unexpected pleasure of teaching dance to 5 and 6 year old kids in their daycare centers. Since they were in the settings that had only ever been used for play before, the beginning was a struggle to say the least. I drove away bawling more than once in the first 3 or 4 weeks, so frustrated that my hard-earned dance education was insufficient to fascinate, and completely stumped as to how I was going to face these little creatures week after week. I was a college kid, but so far from being a kid in my idea of myself, that it had been years since I had really played... gotten down on the floor and let reality and my image of myself as an educated adult float away. Inexplicable mercy took me to class one day feeling just a little flippant and ornery, and therefore holding my agenda a little more loosely. For the first time in at least a decade, I sat on the floor and dove head-first into the world of the imaginary. I named toes, listened with fascination to stories and let myself just become one of the tiny people. Then, when I asked them to dance, it was as play... an extension of the play we were already doing.
Without wanting to endulge too much in the superlative, I have to tell you, it busted something loose in me, unburied something that shook the dirt off with relish, and I have remained irresistably attracted to the world of childhood play ever since. It's become a problem at garden parties! When there are children in attendence, I will very likely be wandering through fairyland and chasing butterflies. Reality is far too serious a place never to leave, and the lesson is applicable on the mat as much as anywhere in life.
It's another reason I like teaching in a slightly darkened room, so that each mat can become its own tiny universe, and each practicioner get lost in his or her own exploration. Walking through woods, snorkeling over a well-populated reef, lying in the grass and letting your eyes imagine the distance to the stars, are all perfect parallels to the mental exploration of the miraculous phenomenon of nature that happens on the mat. I hope to teach more and more from a place that invites that kind of freedom of exploration: to let both the bravery and the light-heartedness that made us strong and free as children continue to shape us as adults.
I'll leave you with a book recommendation: It is by Diane Ackerman, and it is called "Deep Play". It is about bringing the wonderment and awe of childhood forward into every stage of life. It is one I read in spread out pieces years ago, and have just picked up again to my overwhelming delight. You won't be disappointed.
"Swirling round with this familiar parable
Spinning, weaving round each new experience
Recognize this as a holy gift and
Celebrate this chance to be
Alive and breathing"
-Tool
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