The game I brought to our family reunion was simple. Ten blocks, of five different shapes, with a stack of cards are all it takes. My granddaughter enjoyed looking at the pictures and stacking the pieces to match. She learned without any explanation about balance, and alignment. If a block fell down, she figured out how to nestle it between others for support. 

Then we clapped. 

There were no rewards. The way we engaged involved no competition, though the directions certainly allow for those avenues of play. The satisfaction of a complete arrangement was enough. After a while she said she wanted to concoct her own designs, which were equally interesting. 

I remembered a game I played, sixty years ago. The blocks had no pairs, and were wooden rather than unbreakable plastic. The objective was to add to the teetering tower without making it crash. I think we were supposed to shout "Blockhead" but we never did. There was no need. I mostly played with my brother and insults had no foothold in our relationship. 

Watching my granddaughter focus on building was dear. It was my pleasure to sit beside her, without the slightest need to instruct or reprimand. Her motivation had nothing to do with impressing anyone, or winning a prize. 

I reflected on the ordinary interactions that offer me feedback, without the entanglement of punishments or rewards. Recently someone spoke to me in a way that created distance. I left the room. It was not to add blame, or criticism. I just felt unbalanced, and the conversation fell down. 

It is my sincere hope to learn from those instances in which my words lack equilibrium. Hopefully I am curious enough to observe the natural consequences, and try again.