Rediscovering the Magic of Play

“Satisfaction of one's curiosity is one of the greatest sources of happiness in life.” — Linus Pauling

Redirection in the Pandemic

No one can deny that the last twelve months have had a considerable impact on our inner and outer lives. The pandemic has caused many of us to stop, reflect and redirect our journeys.   

As a guide, community worker and founder of the Living London project, last year brought with it significant changes. Pre-pandemic, my life consisted of constantly being on the move and working on a myriad of projects at any given time. I would spend my days undertaking recces, leading tours and workshops, organizing talks and community events, collecting stories, writing and photographing my explorations. Nothing gives me more joy than bringing people together and bringing places to life through storytelling and sharing anecdotes of the wondrous individuals and communities that render them special.

My work, which has long been rooted in exploration, connection, play and evoking within others a sense of curiosity, wonder and belonging (to both people and place) feels more important and needed now than ever before. As we eventually come out of this difficult and isolating period, the need for connection and exploration will be so much greater- and our appreciation for it, even more so.  

At the start of the first lockdown my life felt like it had come to a standstill. I cancelled all my tours. The commissions I had been working on during the months prior had all been postponed. I began shielding in order to protect my elderly father with whom I was living with at the time. I rarely used public transport, met up with friends or left my local area. I got a freelance job with a friend Virginia who runs Lambeth Larder (a community interest company) that connects local people to emergency food and information. I felt immensely grateful that I was able to keep myself busy, continue to earn an income and be part of a meaningful project. But I also felt loss and sadness. 2020 was the year I had finally dedicated to working on my business full-time. Instead, I once again had to go back to the drawing board and figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I missed living London. I missed the sense of community and social interaction. I missed the freedom of exploring costume stores and quirky galleries and magical museums. I missed meeting scientists and filmmakers and explorers. I missed bringing people together and watching as unlikely friendships formed. London was my stomping ground. The streets and spaces that were always there for me, were no longer accessible.      

All of a sudden, the things I most loved about living in London began to fade – exploring hidden gems and talking to strangers, bringing people together freely and experiencing serendipitous encounters. What I most love about London are the serendipitous encounters that would frequently occur. Those chats you’d have in unlikely places; the library, the market, a secret garden or place of worship. During the pandemic, these encounters became few and far between and were clouded in a certain darkness. I met an undertaker in a cemetery one afternoon whilst out for a wander. He approached me, and relayed his experiences of work during the first wave. He talked about the number of dead bodies he had handled. I remember feeling a sense of dread the whole time he was talking to me – was he standing too close? Should I say something? No longer were these kinds of exchanges easy and that made me very sad. I wondered what London would like on the other side of the crisis and how people would relate and interact with one another.   

During this challenging time, I rediscovered the magic of play and the imagination. I would cycle to the lake at Tooting Common at sunrise before work. I would watch the birds. I would gaze up at the clouds. I would scoot down hills and along waterways.  I would read a lot of wondrous fiction. I would escape through my writing. I leaned into the solitude. In a strange way, I felt like a child again. Although my world felt as though it was closing in on me in many ways, and I felt stuck and uncertain, play provided me with joy, relief and a presence that kept me going.  

Playtime in a Palace

In a strange twist of fate, just over a month ago in the midst of a pandemic and a few weeks before the latest lockdown was announced, I moved into a historic house in a suburban London village. In a short time, the residents of the manor have become a family to me. I’m once again relearning magic of living London. I’m rediscovering why I began. Once again, I’m doing all the things I love – community building, collecting stories, exploring, writing and photography – but within a strange time capsule or micro-universe. Cut off from the rest of the world, and surrounded by inspiration.

Life in the House feels transient, unreal and joyous. There are three other residents living in this eccentric palatial home at this time – Juan, his son Pedro and Tamer. Julia, a volunteer often works at the House too. The House is home to unique, down to earth and thoroughly contemporary individuals with stories as strange and wondrous as the house itself. There is Juan, the Godfather of the House.  Juan is a guide, a storyteller, a writer and an explorer. He’s funny and wise and humble. Originally from Colombia, he’s lived a hundred lives in a hundred places. His son Pedro is seventeen years old and attends a French college. He’s an aspiring film-maker who grew up in Madrid and read Kafka at the age of nine. He’s so intelligent and worldly and curious. He takes an interest in everything. Then there’s Tamer. Tamer walked to the UK from Syria when he was sixteen years old. He’s hardworking, charismatic and ambitious. He looks after the garden at the House and everyone around him. He’s selfless and possesses a warmth and kindness rooted in gratitude. Lastly, there’s Julia, a talented photographer and creative, who was born and grew up in Siberia. She’s interesting and interested in most things, especially stories and people. Sometimes, others become temporary residents, like my little sister Noreen – a self-described chronic in-betweener. The house holds a million and one stories, and the ones that are most appealing and interesting to me- are the ones that are being lived out now in the pandemic. 

It often feels like playtime in the House. We eat together, we go for long walks in the common, we watch world movies, we paint, we play heads up (which is similar to charades). We play (torture) the piano and the hand accordion and sometimes indulge in amateur theatrics. We try to scare each other in the dark chapel at midnight and in shadowy corners. We make fun of each other in the way friends and family members do. When it snowed, we rushed to the garden. We danced to the sound of Syrian music. We had a snow fight on our way to Tesco’s. Pedro and Tamer made snow angels out front. In some ways, its owing to the pandemic that we have had this opportunity and (more essentially) time to come together, connect and play and for our lives to have collided in the unexpected ways they have. Play has brought us together, it has made us present and kindled light in the parts of us which had in the last year seen mostly darkness.

Creativity, Exploration and Play

In a room in my flat there is a cupboard that leads to a secret chapel. It’s said to be haunted. When I first moved in, I was convinced that it was, and that the flat I was staying in was too. For the first few weeks, I experienced what can only be described as paranormal activity – the lights would flicker, I’d hear banging noises, appliances went haywire, I found a needle sticking out of my slipper and every night, without fail, I would stir at 3am. Covid 19 was no longer my primary concern. Nowadays I’ve found ways to feel more at home, even if I have to share my space with a spirit/ ghost.  

What I like most about living in a Historical House, is being able to explore different spaces after a year of being confined to a cluttered room. I’ve never had a room to call my own, I’ve never had anywhere to put my stuff. I’ve not really had much stuff as a result. Maybe this is one of the reasons I spent most of my life seeking and finding home in unlikely spaces across London. Moving in was so simple. I brought a suitcase full of clothes and books and adjusted very easily. The House felt like my new stomping ground. Houses are private places where we can be ourselves, where we can play and be of service. In the early weeks, I would read in the beautiful garden. At night, I’d sort through old letters and photos in the archive office. I recorded rare books in a database in the music room. I’d meditate in the chapel on rainy days. One day the owner of the House, a kind and immensely interesting man named Adam came bounding in through my wardrobe. I barely know him but I know he’s a really good man, generous and worldly. His wife, Nelly, is an artist and has a wonderful sense of humour and eye for unexpected beauty.

Life in the village itself is wildly different from life in Tooting. It’s an affluent area, it feels quieter and more subdued. Wandering around I overhear all sorts of conversations, a woman relay her day’s schedule to her dog, another talks about spending Christmas in Suffolk. I watch the children splash in puddles. The House will sadly be sold and we will all move on and knowing this, that our time together is so transient and so specific (in a pandemic/ at a time of increased isolation) – makes every day more special.

Living London and Play

Play is at the heart of Living London, and my journey towards becoming a renegade guide. I’ve learnt to embed play and a sense of lightness in everything I do. I’ve learnt to see exploring and creating, as a form of play. Playing is writing ridiculous poems rooted in the absurd every day. It’s mudlarking by the Thames foreshore at sunrise and counting the planes at London City Airport. It’s spending the afternoon in an artist friend’s studio with clay and colourful cut-outs, it’s molding and sticking. It’s singing embarrassing pop songs on a country hike, it’s looking out for odd cherubs on the rooftops along Havelock Walk. It’s going through racks and racks of fantastical dreamy costumes and masks at the National Theatres’ Costume Store housed in a massive warehouse in Oval. Play is the joy of exploring the recesses of your own weird imagination. There’s something so special about doing things simply for the sake of joy and to satisfy your curiosity. It’s more important to preserve our mental health and to find relief in the simple things during the heavy and uncertain times we’re currently living through.

Creation comes from play – during the times we feel the least inhibited and free, those are times during which we find inspiration, we let go – of judgments (others and our own), of our worries and anxieties. We become present and are able to connect with moments with ease. Since moving into the House, I’ve experienced more joy and laughter than I’ve experienced during the whole of last year and I’m looking to channeling my newly found learnings and experiences into my work. 

To purchase my book, On Belonging, Reflections of a Renegade Guide (which includes a chapter on Play) visit: www.livinglondon.org/books