When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?
Michelle is one curious humanoid. I like that she added (if ever) to her prompt today. Do we ever feel really grown up?
I know I am grown up, because I have grown up responsibilities. I own a home (along with the woman who holds our mortgage); I have a husband; I have kids; I work; and I don’t play enough.
Does being grown up mean we have lost the ability to play? I remember getting lost in the world of play—it was a real world where anything was possible. My dolls could be anything they wanted to be—they were only limited by my imagination. I used to love to use a hammer and nails and make inventions with whatever scraps I found in my dad’s garage—and those inventions were the stuff that made my dreams come true—contraptions that made no sense, but made sense to me.
I also used to imagine at night, that the bed that I was on would take me on exotic trips—and I always wanted to have a favourite stuffed animal with me to go on the trip, and some food (usually in the form of crackers) on my bedside table I could grab in case we did not get back in time for breakfast the next morning. (To this day, I think that these night time adventures could be real, and have a package of saltines on my bedside dresser).
Reading was also part of my playing. I remember my brother reading poetry to me before I could read myself—I loved the words and where they could take me. And then when I was able to read myself, the journeys I could go on, and the people I could be in my imagination were boundless.
I want to take back my right to play. Sometimes I can relive those days of play when I create using paper and paste, or scrapbooking, or even making little vignettes throughout my house of objects I have.
I think the very core of play is creativity, and I think that writing can be counted as play—those times when one is not sweating blood while creating (but even then it can be satisfying when you express something just the right way.) Writing–where you can put your imaginings on paper can be blissful play.
Do you think that writing can be considered playful bliss?