One of my own happiest memories from growing up in Manhattan was the daily trip to the Central Park playground at 94th Street. To my delight, there in our North Cambridge neighborhood just blocks away from where we lived for the first ten years of our retirements, was the “queen” of all playgrounds, Danehy Park, a 55-acre park named after a former mayor. Not only is it spacious, with several athletic fields, three tot lots for young children, walkable paths throughout, with benches along the way for chats or rest, and of course a sprinkler, because there must always be water play for cooling off and wild splashing.
I loved to walk over to the park, sit on a bench, watch kids play on swings, slides, and climbing devices, witness the occasional spill, rejoice with their exuberant shouts, often in several languages, for praise: “Look at me, Daddy, Papa, Auntie, Grandma” as their small legs pedaled trikes at astronomic speeds. Play that includes daring challenges like monkey bars is essential for the souls of children, if somewhat nerve-wracking for parents or caretakers. Probably the most frequently heard adult shout to a child was: “Be careful!! You’ll get hurt if….” Hurt happened, yowling in pain happened, bloody knees and noses happened, even the occasional spat about whose turn it might be. Without exception, some kind of rescue, comfort, arbitration happened as well. I did not see much scolding, lecturing, shaming, or punitive consequences. The kids were comforted, cleaned up, and off they sprinted right back to play exactly as they had been—not a single warning heeded. And often children themselves stopped their games to make sure a playmate who fell was okay. I also saw gracious sharing of food. I mean most kids know what to expect in their lunch bags, they know what their own preferred adult would have prepared for them to munch on. But other parents, of course, made better snacks. One must learn, after all, to develop one’s cuisine—an appreciation for different foods and fluid ethnicity. I’m sure I missed ambulance arrivals and more, but I never saw them. I’m also sure that I am an idealist, yet I will not deny that what I did observe lifted my hope quotient, reinforced my faith in God, and warmed my heart.
What I saw on the playground was children’s playfulness let loose. There were children of many colors, languages, and cultural or religious dress in this neighborhood. Such diversity must be the gift of this USA, I thought. If only we could honor this gift. If only we could, well, NOT grow up and into the prejudices of our assigned group. No wonder Jesus pointed to a young child and told his followers to be like a child in order to realize the poignant words many of us so glibly, thoughtlessly, pray: “Thy kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.”
My limited yet profoundly real experience in this playground led me to think about play as a spiritual gift, a blessing best embodied by young children. I saw mutually enlivening play. I saw such play as proof of the sanctity of Being itself—proof as well that our cherished biases, and all -isms, are not inborn, but they are taught and learned as if they were hard and fast and aggressive social rules—reasons to justify ignorant enmity and war. But they are not present in young children at play.
Mutually enlivening play is a passport to Heaven, understood as a metaphor for complete, all-embracing, no-holds-barred Love. Only in heaven can you ride a trike at Mach whatever. And be caught if you fall by an angel just your size.
