Whimsy

I have been writing and editing a manuscript for the last eight hours, and at this point in the day, processing information has become an intractable goal, but I'm not quite ready to peel myself away from my keyboard yet.  Something was missing from my day.  Too much biology and not enough creativity.  Not enough whimsy.  So I've come back to my neglected blog to write something brief about whimsy.

Did you know that my built-in thesaurus widget doesn't even have an entry for whimsy?  I don't know what to make of that.

In my biologizing, I often don't get enough built-in whimsy and have to create some for myself.  I think that's partly what drove the start of this blog in the first place.  I need to have a creative outlet of some kind.

Taking photos is one way for me to find that outlet.  Eating M&Ms is another (wait, that's a whole different kind of outlet).  

I've noticed that kids, in general, are really good at getting whimsy.

They live in the moment and aren't ashamed to have glow-in-the-dark stickers on their ceilings and walls (wait, neither am I, evidently).  They wear capes, catch fireflies, wonder where the airplanes go when they pass out of view, and stick olives on their fingers (wait, I do that too). They don't sit at their computers for 8+ hours a day.  They don't read re-caps of the most recent debate (wait, I don't do that either).  They don't make lists (unless they're of supplies for an upcoming adventure). 

My niece looking for some whimsy in her backyard with her "goggles."

My nephew, clearly having whimsical thoughts of some kind, judging by the look on his face.

So I'm taking a whimsy time-out this afternoon.  In a few moments, I will ask Beagle if he wants to go for a W-A-L-K.  I'll throw him and my camera into my car and drive to a prairie park so we can romp.  I'll take some photos of the fall views and let my fingers stop reaching for the next letter, the next word, the next paragraph.

Finger Food

I opened a can of black olives one day last week.

I sniffed the juice of the can of olives. I plucked out an olive. I ate the olive. I thought of Thanksgiving. I remembered being a child at Thanksgiving (except for the Thanksgiving when I had stomach flu and had to (even though I was self-proclaimed recovered) eat tuna salad and crackers for my meal instead of the traditional fare).

Based on the strength of my association between Thanksgiving and the taste of black olives, I am going to assume that we did not have olives often in my family outside of major holiday meals.

At said meals, we always had a relish tray on which olives (both green and black) held a prominent and indispensable (in my mind) place. Many a time was I in charge of assembling the relish tray (Pillsbury crescent roll can-popping, unrolling and baking being one of my other main responsibilities).

Many a time I opened the can of black olives, popped a few in my mouth and then proceeded to put one on every finger of my hand and then eat them off of my fingers one by one. I thought this was grand fun. I was happy to know (even though I couldn't there) that my sister took over the role of eccentric aunt and presented this exercise to my not-yet-one-year-old niece last Thanksgiving. I am told that she too enjoyed it.

It is something of which all of God's children should partake. And so. I am happy to share: my new revelation for the week (small though it is): the taste of olives pulls my mind in the direction of the Pilgrim holiday.