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Folly

It is odd and oddly helpful that several of the writers of other blogs that I read are posting about faith and doubt. They are all stuck in this rough patch of feeling as if at a crossroads, uncertain of the path to chose. And we stumble into these dilemmas quite by accident. Serendipity brings us visitors, opportunities or spontaneous offerings that lead to previously unplanned destinations. We start daydreaming about things we had either abandoned long ago or had sadly accepted as myth. The dilemma arises when the daydream runs counter to reality and our real life responsibilities. Reality is a cruel mistress lacking in humor or magic. She bluntly and harshly reminds us of time and agendas, preset goals and committed objectives. She keeps us on task so that we do not waiver or lose momentum. And in most incidents, she keeps us true to ourselves and our internal desires. But she is like a  jealous lover, unwilling to consider new affections or permit dalliances. And maybe she is right. Maybe we need to avoid the distracting lights and music; we need to disregard the captivating beauty beckoning to us, placing our real desires in jeopardy.

But, if I am honest with myself, I am grateful for the dalliances and the daydreams, for I once forgot how to dream. I have been long on this path, focused on a clear objective. I rarely sway from my agenda, singular in my focus. I am not so easy to distract either. So when whimsy bowls me over and catches my breath, I do more than stumble. I am utterly and totally offline. It takes a major corrective effort to get me back on line and back to reality. And it makes me doubt. Is the path I am so doggedly pursuing still what I want? The ‘what ifs’ chime in; their chorus can get quite loud. And when whimsy is luscious and captivating, it makes reality seem like a tired taskmaster who has no genuine regard for my happiness.

But, however brief and however silly my whimsy may be, I am thankful for it. For to have whimsy, no matter how brief is to have something beyond the trajectory of my aim. Whimsy lets me dream the daydreams of a silly girl, lying in the grass watching clouds roll overhead. And for however brief, I have been blessed.

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