Accidental Invitations to Play
I’m noticing a new theme in my life as of late.
Not a “theme” like a branded retreat with matching tote bags. Themes like: the little moments that happen in life that become funny later, usually because my nervous system needed a few hours to file them under: Not a real threat. Just hilarious.
For example, last night while teaching one of my funky yoga classes, someone said to me:
“Was that… a little Michael Jackson you sprinkled in there?”
To my knowledge, I did not sprinkle in Michael Jackson. I didn’t mist. I didn’t garnish him.
But what I did do, apparently, was leave a Spotify playlist unattended like it was a well-behaved houseplant. The playlist ended, the algorithm kicked in, and Spotify went:
“Cool, cool, cool. I’ll take it from here.”
And voila, the room is filled with… “Keep on with the force, don't stop!” Mental note: Do not let Spotify autoplay decide what a room full of humans “needs.”
What this funny little incident did spark in me, though, was a memory of a time when Michael Jackson was exactly what we needed, without even knowing it.
Jordanian Refugees and Devil Sticks
Thirty years ago, I went to Israel to study in Jerusalem for a year. At some point, a group of us went to Jordan to see Petra and other places that still live in my bones.
One of my wilder friends had what felt like a genius idea:
“Let’s take a boat from Aqaba (the southern tip) to Egypt.”
In theory: adventurous.
In practice: a deep lesson in humility, joy, and the human spirit.
I’m not exactly sure why, but at the time I was travelling with devil sticks. If you don’t know what devil sticks are, imagine a juggling practice that looks like it belongs in a 2002 college quad, but in a charming way. I had shoved them onto the side of my backpack. Like a person who expects life to offer a “spontaneous circus” at any
moment.
An Unexpected Boat Party
We got onto the boat, and I realized quickly it wasn’t full of tourists. It was full of people carrying their entire lives in one suitcase—not “we packed light for Europe.” More like: this is everything we own. It was sobering, to say the least.
Also, Jordanians, in my experience, are some of the most alive, generous, warm humans I’ve ever met. Even with so little. Even with all the uncertainty. Even in the middle of a passage that could have been grim.
I didn’t speak Arabic. I didn’t have a plan. All I had was a smile. And music. And devil sticks.
Someone had a small, ancient ghetto blaster (already a long-lost yet amazing technology), and I had my mixtape featuring none other than Michael Jackson.
In my twenties, and believing the world is basically a big living room, I pressed play and turned the volume up.
The crossing instantly became a dance floor.
Not “Ibiza yacht rock party” dancing. No amenities. No bar. No upper deck. Just a flat boat, and bodies remembering that they’re bodies.
In my mind, there were hundreds of people. In reality, maybe 100 at a stretch. But either way, enough humans in one place to create that shared feeling of collective effervescence— where everyone is bigger than their own story for a moment in time.
We smiled. We hugged. We made friends using the rhythm and the universal language, “Yes, you can also play with these devil sticks.”
For a while, it became a small world where nobody had to prove anything, be anyone, or do anything but bask in the bliss of being human.
It’s one of my core memories. Not because it was Instagrammable, but because it made us all come alive.
Why I’m Still Laughing
So when I think back to accidentally “sprinkling” Michael Jackson into my yoga class space, I remember this:
Play is powerful. We learn so much about one another in play because it’s so deeply human.
I hope I find myself on accidental dance floors again. Until then, I can always close my eyes and take myself back to that boat.