Over the last month, and even well before, I’ve felt the circle of hands around me from friends ready to catch me or hold me or be there for a proverbial lean. People I know well and have for years, people I’ve just met, those I don’t really know but feel their readiness and support. It’s amazing this sensation of feeling surrounded by that kind of willingness because, yes, this passage is a solitary one while also everyone goes through it whether eventually, whether already, whether currently, whether time. So I’m grateful for that.

These hands, the ones on the end of my arms, they’ve been very busy in my 62 years. One thing they’ve been doing, which has been brought to my attention pretty clearly in the last little while, is looking for things to fix, to steady, to make OK. One thing they’ve not done a lot of is playing. They do get all up inside writing, which I consider playing of sorts for sure but the actual let-go, make mud-pie, wave in the air on a rollercoaster, run down a hill kind of play, not so much.

The art of that. The moment when we cross a threshold where full-on playtime is put on the upper shelf of that overcrowded emotional closet because maybe someone said “aren’t you too old for that?” when you mention you and your imaginary friend, Wendy, are going out for some frolicking on the playground or “I need you to make dinner” as you inched toward the door on the way to the apartment-complex pool (please to ignore the box of Mr. Bubble under one arm that’s meant to be dumped into the jacuzzi, which would be the mischief-making that you and your friends did on the regular). But then one day the outside voice became the inner one, and there was too much else going on for any kind of let-loose playing. I’ve no doubt this is a totally universal moment for many/all folx. The variable may just be at what age.

At 12, I stopped playing, running, jumping, letting go and instead started watching, waiting, planning, making things just so. I packed away moments of geeky, free glee and trained a watchful eye on the adults in my world and their mental wellness. Became alert to what they needed. No one said I needed to do that outright. Probably no one even expected me too but yet it felt like my job in a way since I didn’t see anyone else around stepping into the role. When someone you love is sad, you want to make them happy no matter what. So playtime altered. Less frolic and more focus. That set a course.

Not to say I haven’t been wild in my life. I most certainly have, yet I can tell you for sure that even in don’t-think-twice moments—dancing on bars, staying up all night for the sunrise, saying yes to a spontaneous trip—I was still eyeing the exit to safety and hearing the voices saying “You’re the responsible one. Don’t go and lose yourself now.” Admittedly the just-do-its could often be filed under risky behavior and I now understand one (in a series) of reasons for that: Appropriate play, did I ever learn that? Maybe instead I went from lock-it-down to let-it-out bypassing pay-attention. By which I mean: Take my time, pay attention to what brings the joy of purely playing. Understand it doesn’t need to self-destruct once the envelope’s been opened. If you have kids of any sort in your life, no doubt you have a view into what that pure unadulterated exploration into play looks like. And maybe there’s a moment of Damn, I want to do that to. And maybe you do. Now, when I go to the Y and swim laps, I slow my roll heading to the jacuzzi (no Mr. Bubble tucked under my arm, alas) and watch the kids play in the outdoor pool. It’s pure joy and it’s inspiring. Finding the happy place, finding the joy. Knowing the caretaking of my dad these past years has also reminded me of our wondrous splashings during vacations in Pacific Ocean waves and Palm Springs pools.