In fact, in the case of the former, the results are more assured.
Well. I have put it out there and it is no attempt at sacrilege. On the other hand, dare I call it sanity?
We stand at the altar of modern life, heads bowed, hands outstretched. Our prayers are a litany of wants: a bigger bonus, a faster car, a quieter mind. We beseech the universe for possessions, believing they are the vessels of our happiness.
But what if we’ve been praying to the wrong gods?
Question time folks: when was the last time you truly played? Not watched, not scrolled, not supervised kids from a park bench, but actually played—ran, sweated, laughed till your lungs burnt. If it takes divine intervention to remember, well, Durant already settled the score long ago.
Will Durant( Source Fallen Leaves) was not telling us to ask the gods for shiny trinkets or manifest material upgrades. He asked us to plead for things to do—to make, to create, to build. That’s the real Tesla stock. Happiness is not in consuming the unboxing videos of others but in making things with our two hands, two legs, or even two left feet.
In Henry David Thoreau’s utopia, each would build his own home. Not Ikea-ed from flat packs, not ordered with one-day delivery, but hand-built. There’s dignity in sweat, melody in muscle. He believed that from that effort, song would flow back to the human heart just as naturally as birds break into chirping when they build their nests. True story: Nature always hums when it works, never when it lazes.
We have outsourced our ‘building.’ Our homes are bought, our food is delivered, our entertainment is streamed. We have become expert consumers and novice creators. And we wonder why the song has left our hearts.
Now, not all of us can build homes. Some of us can’t even assemble a bookshelf without losing half the screws and our full temper. Thats the reality. But here’s what we can do— walk, run, throw, jump, play.
Simple verbs, divine outcomes.
Yet what do we do instead? We…watch. We spectate. We prefer shouting at a screen as 22 men chase a ball across green turf. We livestream dopamine. Somewhere along the way, we mistook being entertained for actually living. That’s like confusing food delivery with farming your own field.
When the applause dies, what endures? Not the possessions. Not your Netflix queue. What endures is the memory of doing. That late-night gully cricket that ended with broken windows. That dance in the rain. That amateur football match where nobody kept score but everybody kept joy.
Maybe that’s the code: prayer keeps hope alive. Play keeps life alive.
And maybe life doesn’t really need to balance faith against fun—it needs us to realize they’re the same damn thing. Playing is another form of praying, only with sneakers on. And while prayer asks, play gives. It gives you back to yourself.
Possessions rust. Experiences, sweat, and laughter? They resuscitate the spirit.
Worry can never be the substitute for activity. But action can be.
We live in an age of spectacular consumption and spectacular sadness. Our shopping carts overflow while our souls remain empty. We collect experiences like trophies, yet feel increasingly hollow. We’ve confused having with being, acquiring with becoming.
But there’s an ancient secret hiding in plain sight: The hands that create are never empty, even when they hold nothing.
Consider the street musician in Chennai who owns nothing but an old violin, yet radiates more joy than the businessman driving past in his luxury car. The musician is playing—literally and metaphorically. He is engaged in the sacred act of creation, of bringing something beautiful into existence. The businessman is consuming—music through his car speakers, comfort through his seat, status through his vehicle.
This could sound contrarian, so be it. What if your life is not a test to be passed, but a playground to be explored?
Have you watched a six-year-old build an elaborate fort with cardboard boxes ? For hours, she is completely absorbed—architect, engineer, interior designer, and proud resident all at once. No smartphone can pull her away. No worry can touch her. She is in the zone we adults spend thousands on meditation retreats to find.
She isn’t consuming entertainment; she is creating it. She isn’t seeking happiness; she is actively manufacturing it with her hands and imagination.
“But I’m too old for cardboard forts,” you might say. Are you? Or have you simply forgotten that age is just a number, but play is a state of mind?
You don’t have to dig deep. The most successful people have one thing in common: they’ve turned their work into play and their play into creation. They don’t watch games; they create them. They don’t just consume content; they produce meaning.
Take late Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who played with rockets and missiles the way children play with building blocks. His “work” was indistinguishable from his passion because he had discovered the secret: when you’re truly playing, you’re praying with your actions.
Every scientist who stays up all night in a lab, every artist who loses track of time while painting, every programmer who debugs code until dawn—they’re all engaged in a form of worship. They’re honoring the creative force within them.
We humans are great at missing the wood for the trees.
Every hour spent consuming someone else’s creation is an hour not spent on your own. Netflix doesn’t make you Netflix-worthy. Instagram doesn’t make you instantly remarkable. Creation does. Suffice to say that the consumption trap is real.
In an AI-driven world, the ability to create with our hands becomes more valuable, not less. Learn to cook, garden, build, craft. These aren’t hobbies; they’re hedges against helplessness. Our hands are our first tools and last hope.
The word “recreation” literally means “to create again.” When you play, you’re not wasting time; you’re investing in renewal. The executive who plays tennis doesn’t just get exercise; she gets perspective. Play is the ultimate performance enhancer( or productivity hack if thats the preferred coinage).
Your birthdate doesn’t determine your ability to build, only your excuse to avoid building. The youngest billionaire is still learning. The oldest craftsman is still creating. Age is NOT a barrier to play.
Next time you see children playing in a park, don’t just smile and move on. Stop. Watch. Learn. Notice how completely absorbed they are, how unselfconscious, how innovative with simple materials.
They’re not just playing; they’re praying—offering their complete attention to the moment, creating something from nothing, finding joy in the process rather than the outcome.
This is the spiritual technology we’ve (probably) forgotten: Creation is prayer in action. Play is meditation in motion.
In this simple shift—from passive consumption to active creation—lies a secret so profound, it can redefine a lifetime. It leads us to an irresistible conclusion: ‘Let us play’ is as good as ‘Let us pray.’ And often, the results are far more assured.
The treasure buried in this philosophy isn’t a secret. It’s hidden in plain sight, waiting for us to shift our gaze from the prize to the process.
Happiness is a Verb:We chase happiness as if it were a destination. It is not. It is a byproduct of meaningful action. Stop seeking joy and start constructing it, brick by intentional brick.
The greatest antidote to fatigue, boredom, or despair is not rest, but a different kind of effort. The fatigue of consumption is draining; the vitality of creation is invigorating. A walk is better than watching a walkathon. Energy creates energy.
Never be so old, so senior, so important that you merely watch the games. The one who throws the ball, runs the lap, codes the line, or writes the first draft owns the experience. The spectator owns only a memory. As Durant warns, we should “never be so old as merely to watch games instead of playing them. Own your game.
So, today, let us replace a plea with a plan.
Instead of whispering, “Let me have,” let us declare, “Let me do.”
The invitation is simple but radical: stop only praying for a good life. Play one.
Stop only yearning for meaning. Make it.
Life’s true wealth is not in what we own but in what we’re alive enough to do.
And the gods, if they are listening, may just smile more on that than on any prayer.
Let us play.