I love to cook. Some days I feel there is no daily act packed with as much joy.

My grandmother, like many other Italian-American grandmothers, was an incredible cook. In culinary circles, they refer to this distinctive and highbrow fare as la cucina di nonna or “Grandma’s kitchen.” Somehow she managed to feed a steady stream of family, neighbors, friends, and strangers without losing her mind. I remember her pace was set to freight train, and it suited her well. She would grab a jar, open the fridge for some cheese, and then carry plates piled atop condiments to the table, all the while grinning and insisting food was on the way.

Food did come, and, more often than not, it was before we could fain hunger pains.

Once I was living on my own, I decided it was time to learn how to make her famous tomato sauce. It’s sort of a rite of passage for an Italian girl growing up in New England. But getting it down to a science wasn’t easy, especially since I went to college in Southern California, and I didn’t realize how regional-specific brands of tomato paste were.

I had no idea what I was doing the first dozen times, but I learned I loved to create meals. I am indebted to the many hours spent “playing house” under the kitchen table, taste-testing the roast leg of lamb. Maybe I learned some seasoning technique through osmosis (at least I tell myself this to boost my inner-chef ego).

I wish I could have bottled the culture we created during those meals, letting it loose for times when I am emptying my bulging box of seasonal veggies, in need of a crowd to partake. Having my grandmother’s genes, I struggle to bring my naturally peppy pace down to a murmur as I plan, savor, and taste. Sometimes I catch myself eating while standing up. And yet the true joy I’ve discovered is in the sharing of the meal. Sure, my grandmother’s food was phenomenal (and often eaten quickly), but it was the community that brought us back each week. Those mealtimes were playful, beautiful, and contagious. We were hungry for connection with another.

There is a longing for this communion table in all of us. Food fills our bellies after long days of work, it signifies celebration, even in the daily, and marks the coming of new seasons with fresh first fruits to enjoy.

At a Gold Gathering a few years ago, Dale and Jonalyn suggested we peruse a magical book called The Spirit of Food: 34 Writers on Feasting and Fasting Toward God. One writer, Patty Kirk, muses about the wonder of picking berries out in the fields and discovering the creative and transformative act of preparing jam:

“Gathering and preserving wild fruit, for me, is to share, in the most elemental way, in what it means to be human, made in the image of God, guardians of the earth and sea and sky, male and female, alive. God’s creation — the berries themselves, the creatures that I share them with, the shade, the minute breeze I wouldn’t have noticed if I were not picking berries — humbles me in comparison to my own, however heavenly the smell wafts through the house as my elderberry jelly cooks down in its pan. To participate in the created world in the way, and to give little jars of sweetness to the people I love seems to me the greates blessing I can expect in this world. “

Summer is on its way and, for me, that means more opportunities for mealtime celebrations. It often comes in the form of a fried egg, toast, and a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. Other times it’s sweet and silly, like our pink lemonade cake in honor of Julia Child’s 100^th birthday. Most often it’s informal times, where we pause in thankfulness for the giver of life, delicious food, and community. 

C.S. Lewis says in Mere Christianity, “God never meant man to be a purely spiritual creature. That is why he uses material things like bread and wine to put the new life into us. We may think this rather crude and unspiritual. God does not: He invented eating. He likes matter. He invented it.”

Food gives life to our bodies and uplifts our spirits, and when we eat it together, we create something beautiful. I am going to strive, more than summers past, to open up our kitchen and break bread with friends, sharing together the joy of good food and even better company.

I was talking with my friend, Chuck, when I stopped, midsentence, and began paddling furiously. That is how conversation goes when surfing. You pick topics that can be abruptly tossed aside. Waves, after all, are the true focus. When they come, you have to be ready. You need to be a step ahead of the guy sitting next to you, even when it is one of your best friends. Maybe, especially when it is.

I paddled toward a dark blue patch of sea that was starting to build into one of the larger waves of the day. It was all mine. As I dropped into the wave, the early morning sun hit the water with a brilliant flash of colors. Then, as I set the rail, I saw my friend Tom throw up his arms and hoot. In fact, the whole lineup did. Ah, the glory of it all!

I wish I could say that all my times surfing were just like that moment, but that would be terribly untrue. Often the conditions are lacking; the water is too cold, the air frigid, the waves flat. Sometimes you paddle out anyways, just for the exercise. Sometimes you finish your coffee, get back in the car, and drive home. Sometimes the crowds are so thick you can’t get a wave to yourself. Surfing can take a tremendous amount of work.

Aristotle says, “We work so that we can have leisure.” And by leisure, he means much more than inactivity. It is a “willing immersion in reality.” Surfing has that kind of effect. The work adds value to the experience. It builds anticipation. It creates a deeper sense of appreciation, especially when all the elements come together. When the conditions are less than ideal, it builds your patience.

Josef Pieper helps clarify leisure by describing it as “an openness of the soul, through which alone may come about those great and blessed insights that no amount of ‘mental labor’ can ever achieve.” In other words, it makes you wise. It brings illumination. At least it should.

But too often, this isn’t what we find. On the path down to my favorite surf spot, trestles are spray painted the words, “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here.” On stickers and t-shirts you see the slogan, “If you don’t surf, don’t start.” You see, there are only so many waves. As competition for waves increases, so does the growing sense of resentment and possessiveness among surfers.

And it has truly become a competition out there in the waves: with ourselves, with the guy next to us, everyone trying to accumulate a higher wave count, or better waves, or better style. We forget that no one but us is really keeping score. And that the resulting frustrations, the growing impatience, and the diminishing returns are all robbing us of the very thing we set out to find: happiness.

Happiness and winning have become almost inseparable in our culture. But when someone wins, someone else must lose. That’s the game. And this mentality goes way beyond surfing. It permeates all areas of life, our appearance, our social circles, our roles and titles, our very identity. We are caught up in an ego game, but our egos are never satisfied.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Surfing has brought me more joy and happiness than almost any other activity. There is nothing like it. It has all the rewards of athleticism, the beauty of the outdoors, all the adventure, challenge, risk, camaraderie, and soul, wrapped up in one. But the fact is, it is a means to an end, and when the means becomes the end, inevitably, we are let down.

Surfing does not exist for surfing’s sake. When it does, it becomes an idol. And these false images rob us of life, the life we were meant to live, the abundant life. Instead, we become smaller.

The end we are seeking, true happiness, is fragile. The truest joys of life seem to happen in that place where our ego is temporarily forgotten. When we can separate ourselves from our thoughts about ourselves and simply be. It is joy, and we only seem to catch glimpses of it in this lifetime.

As I pulled out of the wave, Tom paddled over to me. I was glowing.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“Did you see that?” he asked. “Those two dolphins jumped right out of the face of the wave behind you!”

“Oh,” I responded sheepishly. “I mean, yeah, of course I saw that.”

It dawned on me that the cheers were for them, not me. It can be painful coming back to reality. Accepting who you truly are. But true happiness is found right there, in the plain honesty of the situation.

I turned and paddled back out to where I’d been sitting. Maybe just one more.

If Monday morning was a person, I probably wouldn’t be her friend. But I might feel sorry for her. People throw her under the bus all the time, saying “Happy Monday” with slicing sarcasm. She is dreaded on Sunday night; she is quickly forgotten by Monday evening. We rarely give her our full attention, longing instead for the weekend past or anxiously awaiting another Friday.

Or there are those moments when Monday morning likes to ask: “How was your weekend?” This makes me uneasy. Sometimes it’s an easy answer: So great! or Eh, pretty good. Sometimes I’m a motor-mouth of description because I’m delighted that my weekend was actually quite fantastic. Other times I avoid eye contact and wait until 3 p.m., hopeful that the window for asking the question will close. The last is a result of those weekends where I intended to be active and fun but the only movement that took place was re-adjusting my reading spot.

I wish I could look all Monday mornings in the eye with the same confidence, regardless of how well I played. Instead I judge myself (and others) based on the Instagram-worthiness of my weekend. We sure like to get competitive about our play. We create rules about what constitutes play, when we should play and for how long, and how we should feel afterwards. And before you know it, our play starts to resemble work.

As a child, my play involved an active imagination more than an active body or competitive spirit. In school, English class felt like play, while P.E. felt like the worst job on the planet. I know the opposite would’ve been true for many of my classmates. Not much has changed. So do I have to play like everyone else? Hopefully not, because I really don’t want to climb mountains or solve Rubik’s cubes or stamp greeting cards. But I know some who tend their soul when they use their mind and body in these ways.

Going against the grain of our natural inclinations is playing under pressure. Not a positive pressure like the clock running down in a basketball game, or a crowd cheering you on to win the game. But paralyzing pressure from needing to please others, compare yourself with others, or be untrue to yourself — a lose-lose game every time.

I recently decided to re-read Great Expectations — this time not for school (to get all the right answers), but for play (personal enrichment). When Pip is summoned to Miss Havisham’s home for the first time, upon arrival she commands him to play. Being in a new environment and feeling inadequate and insecure about many things, Pip explains he is far too nervous to play. Sometimes I feel a lot like Pip, failing to play on command. I can’t come up with epic weekend plans because it’s not even in my vocabulary to use the word “epic.” If I’m too worried about having the ultimate weekend and getting to brag about it later, I’ll never leave the couch.

However, during my “playtime” one day, I purchased wall art from Etsy featuring a quote from Julia Child: “Find something you are passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it.” (Read it again and this time, I beg you to hear Julia’s voice in your head. Talk about fun.) She could be talking about work; she could be talking about play. Or maybe we have to work at our play, to become familiar with what rejuvenates our soul and doesn’t exhaust us more. Maybe play is a discipline, a practice in honesty — how do we play naturally? For me, play requires some prep work. To not feel guilty when I turn down an invitation that doesn’t appeal to me; to not feel “lame” when my weekend doesn’t resemble the X-games or a Hollywood comedy; to not feel like God forgot to give me the fun-gene.

Not all weekends photograph well, but if our weekend plans mirror what delights and restores our soul, then we can befriend all Monday mornings with confidence, saying: “My weekend was good. I enjoyed a great book, I drank coffee with a close friend, and I started a Pinterest project. What did you do?”

Seriously, though — how was your weekend? Did you rest knowing you’re valuable to Jesus whether you boarded down a mountain or ate popcorn in a theater?

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Image credits: twodelighted.com and chrisbrownillustrator.com

Recently I read an interview with a new-to-the-scene Christian writer who said that he defined himself as a writer because he “can’t not write.”

This is a popular double-negative among the writerly set. We writers also say that writing is like breathing; we’d die if we didn’t do it. Every day we must write.

Especially early in my writing career I said each of these things. Often. But when I read or hear these words now, I cringe. Because not only do these sorts of things sound pretentious beyond belief, but because I suspect for most of us, they are lies.

Take me for instance, now. I’m not plunking this out because I can’t not; I’m doing it because I’m obligated. There’s nothing I would rather be doing less than sitting here writing. The sink is full of dishes. Weeds are inching closer to my tomatoes. Both weeding and washing sound better than writing. Then there’s the book. I can hear its loud whispers, Come back and read me. Aren’t you dying to know what happens next?

Yes, yes, I am.

But instead I sit here writing not because it’s like breathing, not because I’d die if I didn’t, and not because I “can’t not.” Right now, I write for one reason and one alone: a deadline.

Perhaps the Can’t Not Writer would tell me I’m lazy — and perhaps I am. But, I believe another thing is at work. I’m tired: I wrote three books and dozens of essays — nearly 200,000 words last year. I rewrote many of them this year. While I love to write (mostly) and for much of my life have been energized by the act, lately, it drains me. Exhausts me, actually. So I’m happy to not write.

That is to say, I can not write. Easily. And yet, I still claim the title of writer. Just as I have since age 7.

So how can one be something without doing something?

Easy, if we believe God made us right and also believe God calls us to stop doing every now and again (see Commandment #4).

To claim we always have to be doing the thing that we are is a bit of American ridiculousness. Just as farmers are still farmers when fields lay under feet of snow and people are sexual beings whether or not they’re having sex, so I am a writer whether I’m writing or in a fallow or celibate stage, you might say.

Because being a writer is more than punching keys on a keyboard or scribbling words in a Moleskine. Yes, being a “real” writer means mastering a craft and practicing an art and the required discipline of writing that goes along with that, but writing — as a calling and a gifting — is so much more. And it’s the “so much more” part of the calling that I can’t not do.

I can’t not be a writer. I can’t not think or view the world like a writer. I can’t stop reading. I can’t seem to shut off my skeptic nerve without a whole lot of work. I can’t stop noticing everything, the weirdest things, around me. I can’t stop playing devil’s advocate — even with myself. If I really need to figure out what I think about something (for example, this), indeed, I do need to click open a fresh Word doc and plunk away. And I can’t stop looking forward and backward on my day wondering what God is doing with the story of my life.

But I can — quite easily — not write about it.

In fact, often I think God tells me not to (again, Commandment #4). It’s the same for each of us. We all have callings and things we love to do. But we also all have “seasons” of life when we need to stop. And when that needs to be OK.

Especially if we serve the God of rhythm and rest, of timing and time-outs and if we seek to live as Jesus, the Messiah who spent less than one-tenth of his life Messiah-ing.

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Image credit: telegraph.co.uk and dlkoontz.com

When the four Pevensie children heard the name of Aslan for the first time in Narnia, they were washed with emotions. C. S. Lewis describes what each child felt at the name of Aslan. Yet when he comes to Lucy, he speaks of a feeling that most of us know with such familiarity that we hardly name it: “Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of Summer.”¹

For Lucy, play was the emotion of discovering God.

John Greenleaf Whittier tells us in his poem “The Barefoot Boy” that boyhood play is drizzled with joy. He tells the boy, “Ah! That thou couldst know thy joy,/ Ere is passes, barefoot boy.” What does this joy look like?

“Oh for boyhood’s painless play,

Sleep that wakes in laughing day,

Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,

Knowledge never learned of schools,

Of the wild bee’s morning chase…”

Whittier’s descriptions of the boys play in nature is worth reading. We know those moments, running barefoot in the summer grass or chasing a ball on scorching pavement.

Play comes to us in many ways, as the Soulation writing team will explore this month. It may emerge in images of childhood, the steamy afternoons spent running in sprinklers. Or it may take us to a theatre to watch a story on a stage or to the beach to surf. Play may meet us in the stillness of a garden hearing bees dance. Or a triangle button on the screen of a iPod for the starting of a song. We do not say musical instruments sing because they’ve been worked. They sing because they’ve been played.

Play does have its dark sides. A loser in a game of poker has been played. Or when spies are tracking down the enemy, when put in motion, they are put into play. Play could become an indulgence in irresponsibility, like a mid-life crisis.

Play is the opposite of work, we are told, but some spend more energy at play than at work. They joke they need a vacation from their vacation.

What is the place of play in human life, in become more human, in imaging God well? How does play shape our souls? Let’s explore that this month together.

But before we do, let me offer this reminder. Play is most associated with youthfulness, for that is where we remember our own innocence. Play draws us out of ourselves, born from humility which leads to vulnerability. As we grow, as we bear life’s hurts and struggles, we lose our stomach for vulnerability. It hurts too much. We hide. If we have humility, we may even stuff it away, shielded by our self-consciousness. We forget to play. We feel the shame from those before us who also forgot to play. They tell us play is for the lazy. But Whittier warns the “Barefoot Boy” that we lose play for another reason:

All too soon these feet must hide

In the prison cell of pride…

Happy if their track be found

Never on forbidden ground;

Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

How can we regain our play as adults? It is not by returning to childhood. Childhood is but for a moment, but play is eternal. We turn our faces to the author of all Play, God himself, who invented the miracles of singing stars and foreplay. The God of Endless Delight doesn’t mind watching the sun revolve around the earth again and again, watching each sunset paint a new sky every evening.

G. K. Chesterton remarked that we have “sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” We do well to be mindful of the God of Play and remember the vulnerability of youth that delighted us with Lucy’s delight. Play is our spiritual discipline to train us in joy.

This June, subscribe to BreakfastReading and SturdyAnswers to hear 12 writers reflect on play. You’ll be glad you did.

Celebrate as the Barefoot Boy. Summer has begun.

_________

¹from The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis

Image credits: inmyhomeabide.blogspot.com and campmartintravels.blogspot.com