Play is the ability to see all of life—the frustrations, the joys—not as a test, but as a mirror. What rolls out before us is a reflection, showing us the script we’ve been carrying. Instead of reflexively tightening into the same old reactions, we could slip a breath into the space between stimulus and response. We could wonder, “What is this moment revealing about my mind?”
Through play, we hone the art of seeing differently. The body doesn’t distinguish between anxiety and excitement; it only feels activation. All that changes is the story we tell about it. Maybe the real skill is not calming down, but waking up—learning to meet the unknown with higher arousal.
In that space—the unscripted, the groundless—we begin to set down the heavy armor of our assumptions. We admit we don’t know how we orchestrated this scene, or what secret bargains we struck with life. We don’t know the limits of what could change. We only know we are no longer trapped in the old story, and the fields of possibility stretch wide before us.