Play, Parts, and the Ways We Give

This morning, a few words arrived quietly.

One of them was play.

Yesterday, the kids played.

They are not children anymore, they are teenagers, and yet they played like children, for hours in the pool, floating, laughing. There was joy, and there was cohesion. What touched me most was the way they teased each other. Perhaps because they are older now and know their limits, there was care in it. No harm, no humiliation. Just connection, lightness, being together.

Today, I found myself wondering about play in adulthood.

What do we call play now? And was play even available to all of us when we were young?

For some, early life asked too much. The nervous system had to stay alert, protective, in survival. And maybe play asks for something very different, safety, trust, openness, the ability to let go. Things we may not have received as children, and may still be searching for as adults.

And yet, I believe this deeply: new spaces can open. We can relearn. We can try again.

I did play as a child. Mostly imaginative play, though I was shy, careful. It lived in small circles, with my sister, with my cousins. As I grew older, play became harder to access.

Much later, in my thirties, play returned through painting. Not painting something, just painting. Acrylics on canvas. No agenda. Watching colour move, watching something emerge. Sometimes the inner critic appeared, telling me it was wrong, that it should be covered over. Other times, there was flow. And then the familiar question: what now?

These days, play takes many forms. Playing in the pool. Mucking around with my partner. Yoga can be play. Sometimes it is simply allowing silliness. I am a serious, reflective person by nature, and I am grateful for playful people around me. They invite out another side.

And that brings me back to parts.

This other side connects me to ego state therapy and internal family systems, ways of understanding ourselves as made up of many parts. Some visible, some hidden, some frozen in time. Trauma can hold parts still, waiting, until something calls them forward again.

In my own work, I met parts in exile. Sadness came first. Then anger and frustration. Then shame. Difficult, tender encounters. And also parts of joy, playfulness, and quiet wisdom.

There are protector parts too. Some feel harsh or destructive, inner critics, compulsions, self-attack. And yet, they are not bad. They formed to protect something precious. Often to help us belong, to survive, to be loved. They are still doing their job, even if the world has changed.

Even play can be a part. And the question becomes: how far have we pushed it away? Can we allow play for its own sake, like children building sandcastles knowing the tide will come?

In solitary play, painting, moving, dancing, we discover ourselves. In shared play, we create connection, memory, and sometimes repair. Sometimes things fall apart. Sometimes we learn how to come back.

Later, another word appeared: gifting.

I am not sure how play led me there. Maybe because birthdays are coming. I began to wonder how we give. Do we give what we love, hoping the other will love it too? Or do we give what we know the other loves?

For those with clear passions, it is easy. For others, quieter, more internal, it is harder. When asked, they say, I don’t know. And then the question deepens: what would truly land? What would bring joy?

Sometimes the gift is not an object. Sometimes it is shared time. Presence. Attention. Listening.

I see this often in my work. Stillness takes time. Trust takes time. Staying without agenda matters. The moment I arrive with a need to open, to fix, to know on my timeline, something closes. Sensitive people feel pressure immediately.

Maybe the greatest gift is to be there without demand.

Listening is difficult. Really listening. Listening to understand, not to respond. Letting the other be seen, heard, felt, before weaving our own story in.

I read recently that in Finland, children learn to reflect back what they heard before speaking about themselves. What a gentle practice. To honour what was shared before making it our own.

I will leave it here for today.

A few words that arrived,

play, parts, gifting.

Small words, carrying wide landscapes.

May we keep finding ways to meet ourselves,

and one another,

with curiosity, care,

and enough gentleness to stay.

***

Word Origins

Play

From Old English plega, meaning movement, exercise, or engagement.

Play was never only leisure, it was how bodies and minds learned to relate to the world.

Part

From Latin pars, meaning a share or portion of a whole.

A part was never something broken off, but something belonging within.

Gift / Gifting

From Old English gift, meaning that which is given.

In its earliest sense, a gift created relationship, not obligation.