Why I Write Whimsy

I spent a good deal of yesterday hiding underneath my blanket and, as best as I could, becoming the third cushion of a couch that should only have two. I went for a walk early in the day, and that was good, but Florida is oppressively hot, and my fair Irish skin is not on amicable terms with the sun. I finished a blog post early on in the day and then labored over a few sentences of the children’s novel I’m 36 pages into. A sense of dread that I wasn’t writing place and scene well enough took me early in the day and spiraled me into a sadness which lasted until I went to sleep. None of this, I should say, is all that uncommon.

Why do I mention this? For one, because it’s cathartic to be honest with yourself and others about the hard times. I hardly wrote for ten years because the sense imperfection hounded me whenever I would try. Yesterday I tried reading a chapter of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, and in reading how well Steinbeck was able to engage all five of the senses when he wrote I wanted to give up. I couldn’t finish the chapter. Depression and perfectionism are nasty little buggers like that.

I titled this post Why I Write Whimsy, and the reason has a lot to do with times like the ones I just mentioned. I write whimsy because in the face of pervading and all-consuming bleakness, often what I want is to laugh and to find some nugget of happiness. A little nugget of happiness can often pull me out of my moods, and I’m sure I’m not alone in expressing that sentiment. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve talked to my dad, and at the start of the conversation my face is downcast, and my voice is monotone. He isn’t saddled with the inherent pessimism I often am, and he knows his son. He also knows how to make me laugh. Just talking with my dad can change the complexion of my entire day, and all by virtue of the warmth and lightness of his manner. That’s why I write whimsy. I know what it’s like to need to laugh, and I know God gave me a gift with words. If I can help anyone else to get through their days with just a little bit more joy and wonder, that makes me very glad!

So, I’ll leave things this morning at that, and since I’ve written a great many poems which deal with heavier subject matter than comedic talking animals, I’ll bookend this post with one meant to encourage in the face of downheartedness. I hope everyone is well 🙂

Still Standing

I woke to find the world still turning;

No great flood, nor buildings burning.

Ice and fire had not yet 

Extinguished daybreak’s silhouette.

I wondered if perhaps, then, I 

Alone today was meant to die:

A morbid thought, and still a fear

Which by my bedside waited near.

But, hours passed, my pulse went on

And hummed its common, steady song:

A thought upon my heart did touch

And said, “I love you. So, so much.”

This thought persisted right along

Anxiety which felt so strong.

I saw a picture of the Light

And darkness clashing at such height:

Above the world, a shadow swung

A coal-black blade and forward sprung

Towards a figure draped in robes

Of pure light pulsing like a strobe. 

The blade was malice born and bred,

The shadow clothed itself with dread;

The Light was patient, and His choice

Response was this: a still, small voice.

“I love you, Michael. So, so much.”

I saw the shadow grasp and clutch

At air as if some binding force

Held fast the creature at its source. 

And then, I saw the picture change;

I with the Light did words exchange:

“I’ll be okay?” I asked the Light.

His eyes were flame, His hair was white.

Once more I heard the words, “I love you.”

Then I came again to view

My room which held a heart that beat,

Those words of love still on repeat. 

I woke to find the world still turning;

No great flood, nor buildings burning.

Ice and fire had not yet 

Extinguished daybreak’s silhouette.