Reclaiming play
I am writing on Wednesday, January 13, 2016. I have started a load of wash, sent a number of brief emails and text message, responded to others, and worked out at the gym. At the gym I watched and listened to the news while on the treadmill and then chose a Ted talk to which I would listen. This morning I chose one by B.J. Miller entitled “What really matters at the end of life?” Dr. Miller is a palliative care physician and is executive director at Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco. Dr. Miller’s life journey has included a college accident which resulted in the loss of part of his left arm and the lower part of both his legs, the study of art history so he could learn to see, being a graduate of medical school, becoming a licensed medical doctor, getting married, and continuing on an ongoing journey of learning to live with all of his senses. Who is this man? Who is this person? He is a husband, son, friend, and a physician. He is person who happens to be differently abled, who happens to be a doctor, who happens to direct a Zen Hospice Project. He is a person who knows that his senses need to be fed and who assumes that the senses of others also need to be fed. He talks about, “Sensuous, aesthetic gratification, where in a moment, in an instant, we are rewarded for just being. So much of it comes down to loving our time by way of the senses, by way of the body -- the very thing doing the living and the dying.”
It may surprise some to “hear” him say:
“Probably the most poignant room in the Zen Hospice guest house is our kitchen, which is a little strange when you realize that so many of our residents can eat very little, if anything at all. But we realize we are providing sustenance on several levels: smell, a symbolic plane. Seriously, with all the heavy-duty stuff happening under our roof, one of the most tried and true interventions we know of, is to bake cookies. As long as we have our senses -- even just one -- we have at least the possibility of accessing what makes us feel human, connected. Imagine the ripples of this notion for the millions of people living and dying with dementia. Primal sensorial delights that say the things we don't have words for, impulses that make us stay present -- no need for a past or a future.”
Obviously we do not need to wait to play until we are knowingly are living the end stage of our life. When we were children most of us did not have to be taught how to play. Barring birth defects, early trauma, and other events which leave a child too fearful to play, most children naturally come into this life journey ready to explore. Babies explore their own bodies and the space/world at the intersection of their bodies and the rest of the adjacent world. They employ all the senses available to them – taste, touch, smell, sight, and sound. With touch they explore color, texture, temperature, and mass. They love playing hide and seek, first just with covering and uncovering their eyes. They explore such scientific laws and principles as gravity.
Play is how children explore the world. Play is how we adults made discoveries. Sadly, we adults often forget the importance of play and have a lot of internalized rules limited our play. I recall being in a residential training program in the Oakland/San Francisco area. There was a section of the training which was focused on reclaiming our ability to play The main limitation we faced was our fear of looking foolish or not appearing adult like. Our trainers were a group whose company specialized in helping adults reclaim their ability to play Their office was a houseboat in Sausalito which was really an old barge with a structure on top. The structure on top still left room for play equipment including slides, swings, bars, and see saws. They also had this enormous box of costumes, crayons, paper, and paint including finger paints. They provided an opportunity to explore the use of all our senses in exploring a world, most of which we ignored in our very serious, adult roles of guiding the healing journey of individuals on the road to recovery from a life hijacked by addiction to alcohol, other drugs, sex, power, gambling, and things.
When we allow our bodies to claim its ability to interact with the world of sensations we feel present and alive. As Dr. Miller would say, we feel connected again. He talks about the man with HIV infection and cancer who wanted to raft the Colorado river or the woman living with ALS who decided to smoke cigarettes again – “French cigarettes if you please” - so that she could feel her lungs “filled while she still had them.”
Ram Dass says that dying is like taking off a too tight shoe. Dr. Miller also reminds us that we are not usually afraid of dying. We are afraid of suffering or losing our ability to have the illusion of control. During palliative or hospice care, one is invited to live again – to live with dignity, laughter, sometimes grief, and with love. One is invited to return to a childhood world of play- a connection rather than the disconnect we so often feel if we are in the hospital at this stage of life.
One of the most significant turning points in the treatment of HIV infection with many of us who were not expected to live long was to start talking about those “living” with AIDS instead of those “dying” with AIDS.
As the umpire says at the ball park – play ball. Let’s play.
Written January 13, 2016
I am writing on Wednesday, January 13, 2016. I have started a load of wash, sent a number of brief emails and text message, responded to others, and worked out at the gym. At the gym I watched and listened to the news while on the treadmill and then chose a Ted talk to which I would listen. This morning I chose one by B.J. Miller entitled “What really matters at the end of life?” Dr. Miller is a palliative care physician and is executive director at Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco. Dr. Miller’s life journey has included a college accident which resulted in the loss of part of his left arm and the lower part of both his legs, the study of art history so he could learn to see, being a graduate of medical school, becoming a licensed medical doctor, getting married, and continuing on an ongoing journey of learning to live with all of his senses. Who is this man? Who is this person? He is a husband, son, friend, and a physician. He is person who happens to be differently abled, who happens to be a doctor, who happens to direct a Zen Hospice Project. He is a person who knows that his senses need to be fed and who assumes that the senses of others also need to be fed. He talks about, “Sensuous, aesthetic gratification, where in a moment, in an instant, we are rewarded for just being. So much of it comes down to loving our time by way of the senses, by way of the body -- the very thing doing the living and the dying.”
It may surprise some to “hear” him say:
“Probably the most poignant room in the Zen Hospice guest house is our kitchen, which is a little strange when you realize that so many of our residents can eat very little, if anything at all. But we realize we are providing sustenance on several levels: smell, a symbolic plane. Seriously, with all the heavy-duty stuff happening under our roof, one of the most tried and true interventions we know of, is to bake cookies. As long as we have our senses -- even just one -- we have at least the possibility of accessing what makes us feel human, connected. Imagine the ripples of this notion for the millions of people living and dying with dementia. Primal sensorial delights that say the things we don't have words for, impulses that make us stay present -- no need for a past or a future.”
Obviously we do not need to wait to play until we are knowingly are living the end stage of our life. When we were children most of us did not have to be taught how to play. Barring birth defects, early trauma, and other events which leave a child too fearful to play, most children naturally come into this life journey ready to explore. Babies explore their own bodies and the space/world at the intersection of their bodies and the rest of the adjacent world. They employ all the senses available to them – taste, touch, smell, sight, and sound. With touch they explore color, texture, temperature, and mass. They love playing hide and seek, first just with covering and uncovering their eyes. They explore such scientific laws and principles as gravity.
Play is how children explore the world. Play is how we adults made discoveries. Sadly, we adults often forget the importance of play and have a lot of internalized rules limited our play. I recall being in a residential training program in the Oakland/San Francisco area. There was a section of the training which was focused on reclaiming our ability to play The main limitation we faced was our fear of looking foolish or not appearing adult like. Our trainers were a group whose company specialized in helping adults reclaim their ability to play Their office was a houseboat in Sausalito which was really an old barge with a structure on top. The structure on top still left room for play equipment including slides, swings, bars, and see saws. They also had this enormous box of costumes, crayons, paper, and paint including finger paints. They provided an opportunity to explore the use of all our senses in exploring a world, most of which we ignored in our very serious, adult roles of guiding the healing journey of individuals on the road to recovery from a life hijacked by addiction to alcohol, other drugs, sex, power, gambling, and things.
When we allow our bodies to claim its ability to interact with the world of sensations we feel present and alive. As Dr. Miller would say, we feel connected again. He talks about the man with HIV infection and cancer who wanted to raft the Colorado river or the woman living with ALS who decided to smoke cigarettes again – “French cigarettes if you please” - so that she could feel her lungs “filled while she still had them.”
Ram Dass says that dying is like taking off a too tight shoe. Dr. Miller also reminds us that we are not usually afraid of dying. We are afraid of suffering or losing our ability to have the illusion of control. During palliative or hospice care, one is invited to live again – to live with dignity, laughter, sometimes grief, and with love. One is invited to return to a childhood world of play- a connection rather than the disconnect we so often feel if we are in the hospital at this stage of life.
One of the most significant turning points in the treatment of HIV infection with many of us who were not expected to live long was to start talking about those “living” with AIDS instead of those “dying” with AIDS.
As the umpire says at the ball park – play ball. Let’s play.
Written January 13, 2016
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