Those who know me well know that I want to buy a chateau one day. Ideally in France, but I’m willing to adjust for the right property and land. [And anyone who watches House Hunters International knows that you can always get a better deal if you’re flexible on location.]
I want a place that’s 18th or 19th century, with enough rooms to host a few friends and a massive dining room to gather for a meal. I’m looking for a large plot of land, so each of my friends can build their own home, exactly how they want it. We could all see each other every day, or once a week; it would be up to us. We can go on walks and embrace the sunshine and fresh air. We can garden and grow our own food, maybe even have a few goats and a flock of runner ducks. We can build a community that serves us and our needs, that sustains future generations and keeps them safe and cared for.
I have plans for the chateau, and I talk about them frequently. I’ve recruited friends and family to the mission and indoctrinated them into the recruitment of others. It’s not a cult, I promise.
Last Wednesday night, over lasagna at the House of Lasagna, my dad remarked that the chateau dream is funny because I’ve been planning it in some capacity since childhood. I recalled the big mansions I would draw up on the scrap fax paper my dad would bring home from his office in reams, houses that included a room for each of my many puppies (Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, to be precise). What I forgot, or lost somewhere along the way, was that the rooms were actually for my friends. Everyone would have a room to stay in, so they could live with me or come visit and we could play all the time.
Some of this, of course, may be the work of an only child with a too-big imagination and a healthy ego, but the dream persisted, regardless of my memory of its foundation.
And while I had permission to imagine, to plan, and most importantly, to Play when it came to the chateau, I rarely experienced it elsewhere in my life. I longed for the freedom and the joy of a dance party, an imagination session, or even a free-write in a journal. The exploration without bounds, without self-consciousness, without restrictions.
For almost all of 2023, I struggled to encapsulate how I felt without that sense of Play. My breakthrough came through my now-favorite book, Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow. In the depths of my crisis, this passage hit home:
“To allow yourself to play with another person is no small risk. It means allowing yourself to be open, to be exposed, to be hurt. It is the human equivalent of the dog rolling on its back---I know you won't hurt me, even though you can. It is the dog putting its mouth around your hand and never biting down. To play requires trust and love.”
And that’s it. That’s the thing. Before you know the risks, Play is natural and easy. Drawing a mansion for your dogs and your friends, and assuming they’ll all be there, is the easiest thing in the world.
Growing up, learning about social expectations, experiencing more complicated relational dynamics, and simply living life means that your appetite for risk decreases. It’s much harder to Play when you know what it means to be hurt, to be exposed. You dream of your chateau, but now you pitch the idea to your people over, and over, and over with the hopes that they’ll see the value in this, in your imagination, and in what you could build if given the chance to dream.
My explorations around Play in the last quarter of 2023 were varied. I tried crocheting little dinosaurs and tigers. I tried diving into reading even more, embracing the joy of fantasy and young adult novels. I committed to deep dives of research whenever I was fascinated with something new. I tried playing more games with my friends — board, card, and video alike. I considered what I loved as a kid and poked at those interests. The writing still calls to me. I bought new rocks, despite the ridiculous crystal girly stigma (screw that). I purchased flowers and played with new arrangements each week. I got a million fabric and paint swatches and made interior design mood boards.
And you know what? I’ve never been happier, truly.
This is all to say that opening up to Play has been just as joyful and interesting and challenging as you’d expect for a slightly closed-off and incredibly risk-averse person.
For 2024 — since hi, it’s the start of a new year! — I’m leaning into the connections side of Play, opening up to the risk and leading with trust and love. Here’s hoping for the best. See you all on the other side.
I contemplated deleting all of this and starting over. It’s vulnerable, and it’s a risk. And that’s why you’re seeing this… all in the work toward Play.
And that’s all she wrote. xo.