I was a kid who liked to play with toys which were not toys. Toys which were not crafted or designed by mankind; toys which could have easily shattered; playthings which were not supposed to be played with.      

Why did a child, even with almost a trillion other options, decide to play with such elements of creation, like water, fire, air, earth and space? The child had no monotonous routine, for everything was newness. Every day must have been a lush of shine and wonder, the latter an unforgettable and persistent concept which must have been consistently nourished.    

The child often refused to play with stale-looking dull factory dolls or artificial toy cars, since such a colour of a plastic toy creature, for example, could never have matched the wings of black and gold blending and swirling as playful waves upon night sands. Such vibrancy and vivacity of fire and such gloss and luster of metal was unparalleled. There was nothing more exciting than the fumes and explosions of a chemical reaction, the streaks and sparks of torn electrical wirings.      

These toys were candidly the only glorious and fulfilling ones. Still, mothers castigated those who played with them, lest disasters threatening the very existence of life be invited. The child’s play was the child’s exploration, and her toy was nature. Integration of being was a human need, whether it be an adult in society or a child being introduced to the world.        

The child’s innocence was her building block, once it was built there was adult knowledge, and her knowledge limited the mind of wondering. The child’s play in nature was not a disturbance in its continuum – it was integration, for a human life allowed for human things, and humans were part of nature.