Play — Misstep
In the West, I used to think that play had to do with games, and that games had to do with rules. To play a game means to enter a space restricted by rules, and within those parameters the player can develop strategies in order to act according to the rules, with the aim of winning. There is the larger field of game theory, which has been applied to sociology and other disciplines; there are computer simulations that generate hypotheses on the basis of rule systems; and the game consists in approximating what we call reality, or a defined goal. In the realm of life, the animal kingdom, or our childhood, we thought that play was the practice of skills that somehow give us an advantage.
Yesterday I played chess. I enjoyed playing. Of course I know and follow the rules. I played with someone, not against a machine. I played because I like to play. My mind can stay on the chessboard, develop strategies, think ahead, deceive, create conflicts, sacrifice… But then there is this contemplative element: I reflect on myself while playing; I find myself in a personal relation to the other player. We play together; we want to spend time with one another, we smile, tease each other, and observe each other. The game is a social interaction, a kind of communication and discovery. How does the other person play? How do I play? How do we react when one of us has an advantage or a disadvantage? What kinds of feelings arise in relation to the strategies of the game and in the personal relationship, and how do they influence one another? This is the place where I like to be when I play. I do not like being too fixed on the chessboard. I feel trapped when I sink too deeply into strategy.
There is something revealing here, something deeper about how we are in the world. If we view play through the lens of social Darwinism, then games have a function. If I see games as a playful exploration of the social relation with the other player, then the game becomes love. It becomes teasing and provoking, caring and hiding, showing and pretending, trust and joy, disappointment and frustration. It becomes connectedness, and the entering of a shared space in which we play.
The Isha Upanishad begins: “All this is for the dwelling of the Lord; whatever is individual movement in universal space. Through renunciation you shall enjoy; do not desire the property of another.” And the Aitareya Upanishad begins: “In the beginning the spirit was one, and everything (the universe) was the spirit; there was nothing else that saw. The spirit thought: ‘Behold, I will create worlds for myself from my being.’” I think the beginning of these two Upanishads illustrates play in the highest sense. That which is everything, and wants to experience itself through creation and self-experience, does not follow rules; it manifests a world, or many worlds, in which certain rules are also created. To enter these worlds through individual consciousness or universal principles is like entering a game. Our reality is not something too serious. It is the exploration of a possibility. To be in one of these realities means to play, and play becomes an energy of creativity. Brahman enters his creation through Atman and Purusha in order to move with Shakti and Prakriti. In this greater play, playing means discovering the rules and tools, exploring and experimenting, interacting, learning and teaching. On the chessboard it is the same — only a smaller world. There is no meaning in winning the game. Playing is life, is being, is breathing and consciousness.
So when I win or lose, I should not keep my mind imprisoned in the rules and the development of strategies. I should enjoy the game.
It is difficult to play with others. I cannot play with many people. If the other remains on the battlefield of the board, it becomes boring, even dangerous, because these small rules begin to affect and restrict the connected thoughts and hearts. When I am asked how I feel about losing, I become irritated. I do not understand the question. It is not about losing or winning. I think instead: How did a particular move I made come about? Which thought, impulse, opportunity, and ignorance were at work? What does it mean, in this context, to make a misstep? There was a moment in the game when the other person left the game and entered a conversation. During this brief conversation, I made a half-considered move in order to play with attention. This put me in a disadvantageous position on the board. I wonder whether the misstep was the move itself, or whether moving during the conversation was the misstep. How far does the game extend? I said that I do not normally make these mistakes, and did not quite understand myself when I said it. After the game, the other person focused on the word “normally,” which shifted the game into another reality.
