In whimsical we see whim, and wind, maybe, and hear hymn and musical. When those who can toss life to the winds of wonder, like Dorothy not in Kansas singing about some place over the rainbow, they are whimsical; they take the liberty of being imaginative and wishful and honest and good and fanciful, of course, and ride with it.
All other human beings love a whimsier, sometimes, when they allow themselves a distraction from reality. However, both those who are whimsical and those who enjoy their whimsies know -- when someone is being whimsical -- that reality is simply the surrender to circumstances as they are. Being whimsical is not just a way of defying that rigorous calamity, but of reminding ourselves that we are very human and there are special moments when that really pays off.
Human beings are the only creatures that know they are to die. Human beings are also the only creatures who have a sense of humor. The two facts are connected. Whimsy is the grace of facing reality, deep and hard and cruel and inevitable as it is, with some higher purpose at least in mind, and very obviously, so much in the heart.
