Two years since the last post and I still don’t have anything to say. But I was reminded recently that I should keep writing anyway. Several months ago a colleague invited me to a writing challenge. The challenge is to give each other a word to write about. Form isn’t important – it could be poetry or prose or whatever get’s the language flowing. My first word was ‘whimsy’. So, here’s whimsy.
Whimsy
I used to think that whimsy was for children
playful, frolicking children
who thoughtlessly ink their shoes with rainbow hearts
and twirl down the hall in a tea-cozy toque and Wednesday underwear
be-grinned and delighted by some mystery only they can see.
or for flighty artists who purple and green their windows
with swirls and paisley
and knowingly smile-sigh
as if we are all sharing some delightful common cosmic
reality
or for puppies
Whimsy
a selfish indulgence for those who haven’t grown up yet.
who don’t know better
who aren’t ‘well-grounded’
Not for the reasonable and responsible
who take pride in knowing
what and why and how
who will not be shamed into whimsy
better to conform to convention and stick to the ordinary
monochrome and stable
predictable
And if some long-buried joy
threatens to erupt into whimsy
tie up the rainbow with a swirl of paisley, feed it to the puppy
and swallow the shame.
That was before Sneaky Whimsy sidled up to me
quiet and stealthy
with barely a hint of her simmering joy peaking out
She disguised herself as an experiment
told me it was just for fun
gave me binoculars and a magnifying glass
and a mirror
and said she would be back next week for my report