We think of play as the province of children—something outgrown with time, something left behind once we enter adulthood. But play is not a childhood indulgence, it is a portal that leads us to our truth and Self (capital S Self). Play is one of the few experiences in life that allows us to move outside linear time and enter what Buddhists call the eternal now—a timeless space where we are wholly absorbed in what is rather than what must be done.

Yet many of us forget how to play as we grow older. This forgetting feels inevitable, reinforced by a culture that measures worth through productivity. The final chapter of Winnie-the-Pooh lingers in me. As Christopher Robin prepares to leave the enchanted forest of childhood, Milne writes: “But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.”

The line is so poignant because it acknowledges what adulthood often teaches us: play feels lost to us, yet it isn’t truly gone. It remains in the “enchanted place” of our memory. We leave it behind, but the possibility of return is always present.

So why is it so difficult to return? Of course, logistics, needs, and taking care of aspects of life humanity has evolved into. But perhaps it’s also because we fear that doors have closed — doors that, when we were younger, we didn’t even realize were open. Marion Woodman writes about this fear through the German word torschlusspanik, meaning “the panic at the thought that a door between oneself and life’s opportunities has shut.” This anxiety often arises during midlife, when we sense that the playfulness of possibility has hardened into a series of permanent choices. We begin to panic that we’ve missed our chance to change course and are locked into a particular narrative of who we are.

Yet Torschlusspanik is a form of forgetfulness. It forgets that there are doors that cannot be shut and that play is one of them. Play is always accessible, even in grief, transition, or uncertainty. It asks only that we step outside the roles we are performing and engage with life on its own terms—improvisationally, intuitively, and openly. In the darkest of times, I often think we must seek beauty, not as a mask to the darkness, but as a balance. I think play offers this same counterbalance.

I’ve been thinking about karma lately, especially neutral karma. Neutral karma is a term I’ve created and a budding theory I have. We often think of karma as a moral balancing act — the accumulation of good and bad actions that shape our future. But there’s another type of karma that exists in a state of balance, requiring no debt to be paid. It’s easy to be around them, you know who they are. Time can pass and you pick up where you left off. Delayed text responses are fine. I wonder if the people with whom we share neutral karma are those who remind us how to play — people with whom we can simply be, without performance or pretense. Relationships rooted in play have a timeless quality. They free us from striving for outcomes, returning us to a more natural rhythm of exchange.

There’s a reason why children form friendships through shared games rather than shared goals. Play creates an immediate bond that doesn’t demand explanations. As adults, we tend to approach relationships with a transactional mindset — what can I offer? What will they give in return? — but play invites us into a relationship of shared presence. It’s not about what we can produce together; it’s about being together.

The sense of play is entwined with freedom. Losing freedom means letting go of easy access to play—freedom to fail, freedom to change our minds, freedom to be ridiculous. We become afraid of embarrassment, afraid of appearing foolish. But play asks us to loosen our grip on dignity and control, trusting that joy will emerge when we are fully present in the moment. The irony here is that the most dignified people are graceful with their silliness. And it’s clear to us all that silly is playful.

Play can take many forms. It can be a conversation that meanders without purpose. It can be writing a poem that follows an unexpected image. It can be throwing paint on a canvas, walking in the woods, or letting your body move in strange, spontaneous ways. It’s not about what the action produces but about where it takes you.

“What did you do as a child that made the hours pass like minutes? Herein lies the key to your earthly pursuits.”

―C.G. Jung

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Prompts to Engage with Play

Recently Overheard

Write down a phrase or snippet of conversation you’ve overheard this week. Let it guide a playful exploration. Where does it take you? Who might be speaking? What hidden truth might be tucked inside those words?

Things in Motion

Notice something moving around you — leaves blown by the wind, a clock ticking, someone walking past your table at the coffee shop. Write about this motion. What does it remind you of? What else is in motion in your life? Where might that motion lead if you stopped trying to direct it(!!!)?

The Door You Didn’t Walk Through

What is a door in your life that you chose not to walk through? (A place you didn’t move, a vacation you decided not to take, a second date you declined.) Imagine what might have happened if you had stepped through. Now, turn your attention to the present: What door stands before you now? What playful act could you take to step through without fear of permanence or outcome(!!!)?

A Time You Got Lost

Recall a time you got physically or metaphorically lost. Where were you trying to go? What unexpected discovery did you make along the way? Write as if getting lost was the goal all along.

Found in a Pocket

Imagine finding a small, mysterious object in a coat pocket you haven’t worn in years. What is it? Who put it there? Write a short scene or poem about the object’s origin or its meaning. How does it invite you to play? (See Ruth Stone’s “Second-Hand Coat.”)

Daily Ritual, Reversed

Choose a daily ritual (making tea, brushing your hair, tidying a space) and imagine doing it in reverse. What would it look like to unmake a cup of tea or untidy a room? How might reversing this ritual open you to something new?

Three Things You Can’t Throw Away

List three objects you’ve held onto for too long. (I have a tiny music player of the Beatles song “Let it Be” from my youngest many years ago, an outdoor chair that I love and is fixable but will I fix it?, and a pair of clogs I really love and really want to wear but never do, yet I keep keeping them.) Why do you keep them? What would happen if you let them go — or if you played with them instead? What if those objects were characters in a story? Or something else!

A Game You’ve Forgotten

Think of a childhood game you haven’t played in years. Describe it in detail — its rules, its setting, its sounds. Now, imagine playing that game as your current self. What changes? What remains? Write about how the game still lives in you.

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A door opens when we allow ourselves to play. It is the opposite of torschlusspanik — not the fear that a door has closed forever, but the discovery that there are always doors we didn’t see before. As Milne reminds us, the enchanted place of play doesn’t disappear with time. It is always there, waiting for us to return.

The question is whether we risk looking foolish to walk through that door again.