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Please Grow Up To Be a Fool

A Collection of Musings

Sometimes we get into moods where we think too deeply, we muse too strongly, and we feel just too much. And so we must get it out. We must express it. And so on 4/7/18, after a particularly rough day, my mind wandered into its darkness as I watched a wonderful movie, and came out with the following.

"She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool... All the bright precious things fade so fast. And they don't come back.' - Daisy Buchanan in "The Great Gatsby."

And isn't it so true? The bright precious things do fade quickly. They fade, and dim and move so far away. Because that's what good things do. They dim and fade away, and they don't come back. They never do, and they never will.

And as time goes on, you can't quite recall what it was that faded. You wait in mourning for something you don't remember. You yearn for things you can quite recollect. Because these good things are gone for so long that you somehow can't really seem to conjure in your mind what it was or might have been. Was it love? Was it innocence? Was it joy? And half of your heart floats around cold and lifeless in your chest somewhere, and you wonder if it was ever in the right place and alive in the first place.

There's only one thing you're sure of: It was happiness. And happiness was good. And so you wait for it eternally to come back. While you feel empty, still not able to remember what that precious thing that faded was, you cling to the hope that maybe something will happen to remind you what it was, or perhaps it will replace it. And so in mourning, in yearning and in terror for it—whatever it is—you wait.

I am five months pregnant with a little girl. And I hope that she is a fool. I hope she is a wide-eyed, innocent, beautiful little fool. One who does not lose whatever it is that I have lost over the past six or seven years. I hope she never knows the pains that I have felt, or experience the losses I have. I hope that she's foolish, and beautiful, and innocent. I hope she stays naive, and I hope I can shelter her from the cruelty of life. I hope she falls foolishly in love with someone who foolishly loves her back. I hope she has a foolish hope for human kind. I hope she's a fool with a beautiful foolish heart. And I hope it stays that way—and she never has to become wise.

I believe that any mother wants this for her child, especially in a world today where being foolish is a rare and precious gift—and not to be confused with stupid. Looking on it, I know that it's a long shot. The moment she falls in love, she's going to be putting her foolish heart in front of a bullet. And as soon as that bullet hits her fragile heart, it will shatter and break, much like mine did. 

I don't even know if I will be raising her with a man who will teach her what she should look for in love. I don't know if my love will be requited. I don't know if a man's love will be even present in our lives from here on forward. So I fear she will not get to grow up foolish at all—instead a piece of her life will be missing from the start. If she does not have a father to look up to, how will she know what to be foolish for when she is older? Who will protect her from the men who make her innocent foolishness fade away? 

I fear it will be my fault that my daughter does not get to grow up foolish at all for my own foolishness drives me towards powerful love that sometimes and sometimes not loves me in return—and sometimes I'm afraid it will destroy me. I'm so afraid she will grow up walking on the sharp edges of my broken heart—and she will learn to not be foolish before she even gets the chance. Because I love so much, but what can you do when it is not returned? You simply have to exist with this—and watch this precious love fade away. I cling fiercely to it, but sometimes it hurts too much to continue to try to keep it in view. Sometimes it would be easier to let it fade. But I cannot—so I risk my daughter's feet and her foolish heart.

But we cannot help what has become. The precious things have faded, and a new one is growing warmly within my womb. And I just pray that something precious will come to both of us—or stay with both of us—and she can grow up to be a gorgeous, beautiful little fool.

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Please Grow Up To Be a Fool
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