I had a session with Hiro yesterday, which was brilliant and kooky and amazing, as always.

And she said something kind of like this:

“For someone as successful as you are …. well, it’s fascinating that there’s this part of you who believes prosperity has to come in tiny, tiny increments. From the doghouse to the stables, and only later to the house.”

Of course I hadn’t told her about any of this. She saw it. But I knew what she was referring to. It was the dolls.

There were two of them.

Two sisters.

They were poor. They had nothing and no one. They dressed in rags. They lived in the forest, finding shelter under the trees.

They were strong and tough, and had creative ways of getting by.

They used found wood to build a hut between a cluster of boulders. They made forest art. They picked mushrooms and berries.

Once they found a market or a fair at the edge of the woods.

And each week they would hike there and trade their forest findings for things they needed.

Clothing. Books. Pots for cooking. One time someone even gave them an old sewing machine, which they fixed up and began to make cushions and blankets.

Years went by.

Their crafts became well-known in the surrounding villages.

They moved into a cottage.

They were beautiful and happy. Making, building, creating, trading.

And as time went on, their lives became more comfortable until eventually the experiences of cold and fear and lack were just memories.

Or until my parents called to me that it was time for dinner.

Nope. Just me.

Whenever girlfriends came to play or I was at their houses, I was always astonished by how these girls would just start at the end.

They would set up the dolls in a gorgeous house with lots of clothing and a car. A car! And furniture. And boy dolls.

And then they’d … play. It made no sense.

That wasn’t a game. That wasn’t playing. The play was the process. There isn’t anything to do at the end except sit on a couch reading a book and basking in the good.

My girlfriends would also get annoyed at sharing the nice clothing and playthings for the dolls with me, because I wouldn’t actually use these for hours. They didn’t understand.

It’s your game. That’s the part I always forget.

Hiro, in her wisdom and her wonderful ability to be a complete sillyhead wackopants, said I could go out and get some dolls.

That I can rewrite the game.

Make up a new game for them. Change the game. Play again. A different kind of play.

But I couldn’t even imagine a new game. That is the game.

Finding the quality.

Hiro: What is the quality at the heart of this game? If this game is sacred play, what’s going on? Your playing was never about acquisition or growth for the sake of growth. So what is its truth?

Me: Well, there’s something about patience. And trust. And hope.

Hiro: And ingenuity and creativity. Taking action on your own behalf. Activating your powers. Elegant and unlikely solutions. All the things that make you such a good businesswoman.

Me: Oh.

Hiro: Take these qualities and these elements and make a new game.

The zen of the giant collective Comment Blanket Fort.

I would love for you to play with me.

With dolls. Or in your head. That counts too.

Or just thinking (out loud or otherwise) about what this.

What some of our hidden ideal narratives of “success” might be. And where we trip over these imaginary scenarios.

As always, we all have our stuff and we’re all working on our stuff. So we let people have their own experience and we don’t give each other unsolicited advice.

I am going to get two dolls. And take them to the Playground.

postscript: The new Rally page (Rally!) is up. I still don’t know how to explain how great it is but at least now you get a feeling. There’s another page too that’s a Rally FAQ — I hope we covered everything, but if not you’ll let me know.