Like some shy and smiling sylph peeking from behind a boulder along the trail, I sense a fierceness in my heart when it comes to whimsy... as if whimsy were simultaneously utterly ephemeral and desperately important.
"Whimsy," an Internet definition explains, is, "a thing that is fanciful or odd." It makes no money and nourishes no social importance. It peeks from its hiding places and lays claim to no social hand-hold. With it, a man may be whole and yet bearing no banner. Without it, he is bereft and his soul ill-at-ease.
Yes, the scowling and tears of arenas like war and starvation and cruelty cry out for relief. Yes, the platitudes and well-ordered morality of joy beckon and enfold. Yes, such matters snort derisively at whimsy's delicate touch.
And yet, and yet ... what is a life without whimsy -- a giggle that no solemn man would dare?
In a men's rest room in Berlin, some graffito artist once penned, "A kiss that lasts forever is a strange gift."
And, as alluded to earlier in this blog, somewhere someone constructed a hitchhiking robot and then sent it on its way. Its serious whimsy was well received until someone decided to wreck it. And yet even in the whimsical thought, there is a shy smile that many might return.
I suppose speaking of whimsy is like dissecting a joke or parsing laughter. No one can do it and yet the heart of the matter pumps rich, red blood and the trail through the woods, while still and inexplicable, springs to life.
Whimsy: I guess you can have it, but you can't love it.