I almost didn’t write to you today. I’m here not because I should be, but because I want to be—not why do it, but why not? Not, what’s so bad if I miss a week, but, what’s so bad if it’s a chill week? After all, I’ve said this is about playing out loud—and this past week was full of restful professional play.
Non-Newtonian Physics: A mind at rest tends to stay in motion
Take Thursday. For the first time in months, I was both content and bored. For once I was happy with what I’d gotten done so far that day—so I had no idea what to do! I ended up reading some Latin: Pontanus, a Renaissance writer who wrote dialogues that feature the woes of German schoolboys learning in Latin, and Cicero—whom I often find insufferable, but wondered at (admirebar, in the Latin sense) that afternoon.
Unlike when I have Latin reading on my task list, though (I am a PhD student), it was calm reading, diffuse, non-goal-directed. It was in the armchair pictured above cuddling the frog puppet pictured above. At the same time, I knew it was productive in that broader, more important sense—wandering deeper into the world that I’ve chosen and committed to explore for the next few years. Or maybe I didn’t know—I trusted. I trusted that I know myself well enough to know what feels good and satisfying. I had faith in the doctrine I preach so often, that playful learningis not just healing, but powerful forward motion in our various works.
Hey Jamie, you, repeat after me: rest matters. It’s more than repair—it’s its own adventure.
Making Curiosity into Meaning
At 6am on Saturday, I spent three hours on Zoom, more than voluntarily, for a conversation with these lovely strangers:
Our theme was curiosity—which largely ended up being play (with several garden and kitchen mentions mixed in). I’m getting down the idea of the community playground for learning and growing. (Actually, I had it down in a research sense in first grade, having produced an ethnographic study of NYC playgrounds...) Grokking the idea so hard is why this newsletter is our Sandbox.
What I latched onto that morning was the longing for playmates in that learning playground. In one of my Pandemic Patterns, I’ve been seeking out new communities to engage with, build together, and be responsible for. In March my brain walked me to nearby Prospect Park for thinking meditations and long walks with the Sun. It reconnected me with my childhood creativity (the curiosity, in contrast, I mostly haven’t lost): I was an incorrigible darkroom denizen once. For the first time in years, my phone’s camera roll is filled with landscapes and people-filled still lifes more than captures of the Latin on the blackboard and forms to email.
Recently I’ve been trying to go back to at least that part of March. But eight months in, I need playmates. Curiosity isn’t enough, and neither is creating alone. I started sharing my photos with others, even with the Internet (my corner of Twitter)—because eight months in, I desperately need connection more than I deeply fear judgment. I need soul food from my brain food. And that means I need to create, out loud, with what I’m curious about, perfectionism and fear of vulnerability be damned.
This is something that I try (in other words) to model and impart to my brilliant and neurodiverse students, the so-called “twice exceptional” folks, whom I find to be, in their tween draft versions, endlessly curious and variably creative. If there’s one thing that’s come with more life experience than they have had as a 2e person, it’s not wisdom: it’s the pain of avoiding the search for meaning and the fear of intensity. Many of my kids skitter across the surface of ideas, even as they build intricate worlds with Minecraft in creative mode instead of slaying enemies in survival mode. They want to distract me from the work I’ve intentionally designed for class with “but technically, my question is related to Latin...” My job is leading them back to the path—not because it’s safe or intrinsically right, but because I know directed motion brings more healing and potential for resonance than random motion.
From what parents and the kids themselves tell me, the best thing I’ve done is help them create from what they explore. Educators and related service providers often talk in terms of getting these kids to produce with all their bright, ephemeral ideas. I cringe at the sense they mean it in: industrial-style productivity, measured by word or completed worksheet count. But I actually agree: I know how badly it can go, long-ish term, when our narrative of ourselves is that we’re interested in the whole world and yet not contributing to it. But unlike so many educators I’ve worked with, I enter my kids’ play—the worlds they’ve built but can’t or won’t share—even when those “kids” are 17.
My kids—and I—abound with go-getter curiosity: active adventuring after ideas. What I’ve matured into is the joy of reflective curiosity and curiosity about emotions and the self. I seek out experience over ideas, though the best times combine both, and sometimes, like on Thursday, just sit with my question in wonder and gratitude and amazement.
New Elements of Play
I’ve been trekking into some meta-worlds in my play recently. Toying with play. Two reminders to myself that maybe you need too:
We need totally non-work-related play! This is maybe especially hard in the lucky case that we love what we do. Right now that play, for me, is an Octavia Butler audio book and listening to Sweet Honey in the Rock and various polyphonic settings of the Catholic Mass on the same playlist. It’s great.
There’s a reason playgrounds have structures. These days, totally unformed wandering in my world defaults to anxiety and guilt. To give myself permission to make a mess in play, to value my deep wants as much as my shoulds, I need some sort of container formed of purpose. Right now it’s studying for PhD exams and agreeing to give a conference talk in March on ideas that are quite unformed right now—the abstract is my container there. And it’s authentic and built by me, unlike the containers my instructors have designed for the semester’s classes.
Action Items:
Prioritize a strong want you have this week. Put it on your to-do list if you have to. Don’t do it “just if I have time.”
Introduce yourself! It’s getting to a delightful point with this newsletter where there are email addresses whose owners I don’t recognize. I’d love to hear who you are and what you’re thinking—just hit reply. I promise I’ll reach back when you reach out.
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