What happened to play?
I don’t think I was a dreamer as a kid. It’s not that I had no aspirations, but rather saw infinite possibility. I didn’t latch onto one particular dream or accomplishment because there were too many to choose from. Instead, I just worked really hard at what I did. I worked hard at school, on the field hockey field, and in the climbing gym. Whatever I did, I just tried to do it well.
When I was very little, I had an obsession with Annie, the musical. I do recall wanting to be her, on stage, for a brief time. Once that impossible dream subsided, like a lot of kids, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian “when I grew up.” Accompanying my dad to put down our golden retriever, Dixie, at age 12 quickly dispelled that idea too. I don’t remember having any career ideas in my teens, and I certainly wasn’t ready to declare a major when I applied to colleges. The reason I majored in psychology wasn’t because I wanted to be a psychologist, either; I just loved the classes and never felt like the work was real work. It was just fun. I wanted to spend my four years enjoying my education, not loathing it.
I recently realized the lack of dreaming in my youth when I went climbing in Rifle for the first time. Rifle is certainly one of the most renowned climbing areas in the United States, but possibly the world. As a child, I would leaf through the climbing magazines in the rock gym, seeing photos of Rifle and similar crags, waiting for a parent to pick me up. I would think wow, but I never thought, Wow, I want to go there. I want to climb there someday. It didn’t even occur to me that somehow, that could be a version of my life. But now I’ve lived in Colorado for 9 years and have not just climbed in Rifle, but a number of world-renowned climbing destinations.
Making it to Rifle wasn’t just fulfilling a would-be childhood dream. Making it to Rifle was a testament to the climbing expertise that I have so relentlessly pursued for the past 18 years. Rifle has practically no moderate-level climbs — the ones that do exist, as the guidebook says, are polished and uninspiring. To have a good time at Rifle, you have to be climbing at an expert level. Or be really good at accepting failure. Because even as an expert, you will fail at Rifle. Again and again and again.
For a while now, I’ve been stewing on this idea of expertise in adulthood. To me, the greatest joy of growing up has been finding passions and tenaciously seeking more information, more knowledgeability, and more experience around them.
While climbing has been part of my life since I was just 9 years old, many of my current passions have only developed over the last 8 years or so. Take running, for example. I barely had run more than a 5K before college. Then two years ago, I qualified for the Boston Marathon — I ran the Austin Marathon at a pace of 7:26 minutes per mile. That’s mind-boggling to me, still. Was that even me?
The joy of qualifying, however, wasn’t just crossing the finish line at a wicked-fast time (for me). It was all of the work I had put into it. I had chipped away at running races, learning how to train, fuel, and recover for several half marathons and two marathons prior to Austin. The desire to improve and optimize my running was insatiable, and still is. Now training for my second ultra marathon, I am so wholly fulfilled knowing how much more I have to learn. I am learning more about endurance running practically every day. And learning more about climbing every day. And learning more about myself every day.
I have lamented to several people that when I took AP Psychology in high school, I was taught that adulthood (as defined in developmental psych) is basically broken into two categories: work and love. It’s about what you do to make a living and who you spend your time with. But what happened to play? Play is so important in childhood, but it falls to the wayside as we age. But in my current state of being, play is all I have. I am unemployed and single. Does that make me less of an adult? (Maybe a little.) But there’s so much value in play for me because I am growing and developing passions that I never dreamt I would be skillful at. Passions that have taken me so many new places and taught me what I’m made of. Without play, I don’t know who I would be, what I would do.
My uncle Carey is nearly 72 years old, and he is an expert wind surfer. The best part? He started in his 50s. After years of traveling to Hood River, the US wind surfing mecca, he and my late aunt Debbie moved to Mosier, just 5 miles east, with a population of less than 500. He wind surfs every day that it’s warm enough and the wind is blowing hard enough; he skis Mt. Hood when it’s too cold to wind surf. I remember seeing a Facebook post of his last year of him in his full wet suit, smiling ear to ear, standing on the shore with his board.
He wrote: “Pretty late in the season to be windsurfing for me, but no snow so whatcha gonna do? Glad I went! NE wind 30-35, air and water temps both ~47 degrees. Toasty in the drysuit except for the hands.”
I showed several friends and family the post, because all I could think was: this is someone in the family who gets it. That the love for play can dispel everything else. Who cares if the conditions are poor? I want to push myself.
When I asked uncle Carey last year about how he got into wind surfing and what it means to him, he said, “This is the greatest part of my life. The fact that I’m out there with people decades younger than I am, holding my own … it’s incredible.”
Maybe I didn’t dare to dream a lot when I was a kid. But as an adult, the only thing I dream about is how I can keep playing for the rest of my life.
