Celeste Mercier

The quad is alive for the first time in weeks—and I’ve realized something about humanity.

Sorry—I’m an anthropology major.

Bare arms and legs decorate the still-green quad, students lying on their bellies like lizards. I’m tucked in my hammock without a jacket: Today, November’s cold fingers have thawed. A lovely breeze plays with my hair and teases leaves barely clinging to trees. Two boys throw a frisbee while a group playing Spikeball shout and yip: One of their lot utterly missed the net. Every now and then I stop reading to watch, for the most part feeling content. But I feel a pull—an instinctual urge to join. Despite not recognizing any players, and despite not being particularly good at Spikeball or frisbee, I want to jump in. But I let fear of embarrassment stop me and remain in my hammock.

I hear it before all of us are hit. A howl rises, then distant trees whistle—and the hammock is suddenly buffeted forward so fiercely its loose flap snaps and undulates like a snake. The wind doesn’t stop; it pushes the hammock forward and then forward again, like a mother shoving her daughter on the swing. I can’t help but laugh. No longer am I a mere onlooker; I’m a part of the play, now. My playmate? The wind.

Too soon, she stops, moving swiftly on to play with others. After settling back down, I decide to stick my leg out and push the ground. The hammock rocks gently, a soothing rhythm.

I’m happiest when I’m playing. I’m a grown woman, and I will always make time for play, be it with friends or the wind. While my closet is no longer cluttered with Barbie dolls or Littlest Pet Shop toys, I do have a deck of cards, a soccer ball and a violin. I don’t play to win (although winning is nice) but to be with something or someone.

I remember hours of soccer with middle school friends: counting not goals but how many times we’d kick the ball through each other’s legs, shouting and laughing as we drag each other down, then roll around for good measure, stopping only when night descends. To play is such an ordinary thing, and yet it is often magical …

… I’m playing with my eyes closed, hugging my violin to my chin as I draw out long, tremulous notes. I will never play onstage, because I’m dreadful—and I’m okay with that. Because I don’t play to perform. I play because I like the way it makes me feel. Playing leaves me full. It’s as replenishing as eating food. The music I make, and the music I hear, transports part of me to a world of pure emotion. My other half is still aware of my body drawing the bow, but I’m not fully stuck in material reality anymore …

… A student shuffles across the stage, hunched and dressed in green rags. Extending her staff, she launches into song. A spotlight illuminates her makeup and youthful face, but for the moment I forget: I believe she really is an old witch. When she stabs her staff at poor Jack, I believe her spell should work. Playing this role, she’s full of life—the kind of life that’s contagious, ensnaring the audience. And where there’s a surplus of life, there’s magic.

When we play, fantasy and reality collide. Those who are engaged in play remove one foot from mundane reality and set that same foot into the magical realm. It’s by straddling reality and fantasy that kids play “house,” actors act, musicians play, people partake in board games and sports, and I can play with the wind. We situate ourselves in two worlds at the same time—an exhilarating, imaginative and hopeful experience. And while we often think of sports and boardgames when it comes to play, this definition expands it to include creative writing, photography and visual art.

Playing strikes a perfect balance between staying grounded and seeking escape. We don’t play simply for the outcome. To play is to do something not simply for the result, but because the process provides us with something ordinary life doesn’t: magical excess. To play is to do the “unnecessary” thing for necessary reasons: for joy, happiness, distraction, pleasure. Given a modern life is one that balances productivity with recovery, it’s unfortunate that, for a lot of people, play isn’t a part of either. But it has the potential to fit into both. And it should.