For at least 97.364596% of the time I am a responsible adult, contributing to society and trying to be a decent human being. I buy carrots, insist my children eat them, mop floors, study my scriptures and read lecturer-assigned journal articles, consider which politician to vote for in the coming elections, try not to swear when a tissue has disintegrated through the load of washing, obey the road rules, talk in usually complete sentences and participate in the constant, ever present hum and tumble of sensible grownupdom.
But I am always looking for an unexpected whimsy.
Whimsy – the cheeky younger cousin of sensible, the dreamy splash of possibility that wonders “What if?” instead of going to wash the dishes. The little unexpected things which wash the age from our eyes and let us play, just for a moment, in puddles and oceans of potential, far away from wherever ‘here’ has dumped us. Whimsy is the holiday I take mid-wrestle with my day, letting my thoughts take flight not just to another level, but another continent, universe, idea or reality. I remember reading Alice Walker’s The Color Purple for the first time and stopping right there to wonder how God really felt if you “walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.” I want to notice the purple, the dazzle and joy in whimsy wherever I may find it.
I’m a fan of street art which makes you slow, double-take and smile. I have a wish list of art which includes gargoyles leaping for bubbles, and ballroom dancing on the beach. My favourite movies feature whimsical themes or characters – the watch in ‘Stranger than Fiction’, for example, or the people and premise in ‘Lars and the Real Girl’, to the soot sprites in ‘My Neighbour Totoro’. My bookshelves are crowded with whimsical brilliance, from temperamental apple trees to explosive-detonating dogs, from a wordless immigrant story to Death narrating a tale. There is so much whimsy in so many forms, with so little time for me to appreciate and absorb it all.
I know many people who see whimsy (and imagination for that matter) as useless, childish – as diversions and distractions from the more important things in life. Among my friends are some who have deliberately put away childish things without substituting anything which brings them joy or inspiration and – while they are definitely adults – they seem somehow brittle and parched. I sometimes dream of being a child again (reading up high in a tree, having no idea of bills or ironing piles!) but I am unavoidably and deliberately an adult. For me the stretch, tug and demands of being a grown up are the basic ingredients of my day, however the whimsy I enjoy is the leaven, making the work seem not all sweat, but sweet as well. I’m sure I could live and function without quaint oddities and imagination, but I’m sure I wouldn’t be as happy, or as much myself, without the sparkle and delight of my pocketsful of whimsy.
Do you like ‘whimsy’? How do you take a break from being a ‘grown up’? Are there any books, movies or artworks you enjoy that show something a little (or a lot) different from reality? Is imagination a part of your day?
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