In the sanctuary of play, no one needs a ribbon or medal. There are no MVPs, no time limits, and no rules that cannot be changed–and changed frequently–with the consent of the players.

Walking this morning, I stopped to admire the two palomino horses in the small paddock about a quarter mile down the road. Watching them, I could not help but remember the horses I used to ride along West 27th Street in Kearney, Nebraska. They were wooden dowels with fabric heads, glass eyes, and synthetic manes. They were decked out with fancy halters and reins. And in our eyes, they were magnificent.

Imagine a herd of neighborhood kids wielding stick horses up and down the sidewalks, a wild and woolly posse with arms and hair flying. This was play at its best. Stories and roles took shape quickly, and each rider lost herself in these narratives.

Today, my sanctuary of play often finds its center in my bedroom. This is where my grandchildren, Gracyn and Griffin, choose to play. Sequestered in the back of the house with the door shut (always with the door shut), the play can continue without adult interruptions and daily distractions.

My bed is the camper, and an elaborate camper it is! With each new day, Gracyn adds another room or feature: a kitchen with a chef (who also serves as a doctor when needed); a dance studio (because she is perpetually preparing to perform some sort of dance); a bowling alley; an office; our own “Fun City” complete with trampolines and water slides; and an ice skating rink.

From my spot on the bed, I listen as she narrates the adventures, dictating the roles that Griffin and I will play. Decked with flashy jewelry and scarves, she imagines us through worlds of travel and adventure. She is always the big sister, Griffin the father, and I am the mother. Griff drives the van and leaves the room–only briefly–to go to work.

As the constant, the nucleus, I remain in my spot to propel the narrative through questions and comments. As long as I am there to witness the goings and comings, the planning and dreaming, the center holds.

In play, we lose ourselves–if just momentarily. Poet Robert Frost writes:

It [a poem] begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction         with the first line laid down. It runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on but in a momentary stay against confusion.

For me, our play, like the first line of a good poem, assumes a direction with the first line spoken. And then, it runs a glorious course through nights of pageantry with dress-up and made-up song, through moments of tender care for stuffed animals and dolls who play primary roles in every story, and through the comfortably predictable routine of beginnings and endings.

In the sanctuary of imagined worlds and lives, the only conflict resides in which doll will be the day’s travel buddy or who gets to be the keeper of the keys to the camper. There is little we cannot do, and few problems we cannot solve in the camper.

And this play inevitably results in some type of clarification of life, a momentary stay against confusion. For these blessed moments, I do not consider that suffering and uncertainty live beyond these walls. With the sweet weight of Griffin’s body against mine, there is no place I would rather be.