FootprintsintheWind.com

Working on a chapter called Playing with Dying, and now comes the question: What is play? In children it is rehearsal. It is letting the body be body—stretching, laughing, enjoying, hurting nicely, engaging other bodies, sobbing, heaving, falling, failing, reaching, touching, being touched, grasping, gasping. It is consuming all of one’s mental moments for the duration that extends past the edges of time. Play is thinking in the thick and gooey of the jam. Play is exploration: body, body-mind, and body, all. Play is a curious thing. Play is curiosity. Play is to stumble into: unexpected, and much anticipated.

:- Doug.

Hear the Something More of conversation.

:- Doug.

I look out the window with my unlensed eyes. Up there, the maple buds, not yet burst, all deep red-orange-brown, are waving lazy fingers in front of each other, making patterns of caresses. Now the light slides in and the brilliance of that deep red-orange-brown shocks my eyes, I blink. The little white cloud behind lights these buds, and now these, a lover’s close examination. Lower, the green stained white of a pear tree receives the gentle cool sun. The pond is still, waiting for the reflection to arrive. Full sun lingers and I’d have missed it if I had only looked now.

:- Doug.

What’s hidden in, no by, another can be a delight to be given by chance, and leave again hidden.

:- Doug.

How ought we live the dying of these we expect to continue among us?

:- Doug.