In Praise of Folly

Or, lessons from a dancing lawyer

When the going gets tough, which feels like the status quo these days, I think of one of my greatest spiritual teachers — a tax attorney named Gus.

I first met Gus when I was eight. He was maybe forty. We were both cast in a community theater production of Oklahoma! which is easily the corniest musical this planet has ever seen. (True in terms of both hokeyness and lyrics about literal corn.) Gus wasn’t a natural dancer, but he was easily the most enthusiastic — his hitch kick with a pitchfork would be sure to make you smile. He always sang with gusto, even when the high notes were a bit of a stretch. I can still picture him, rushing backstage before the show, shedding his starched shirt and tie for duds better suited to a scarecrow.

It’s been at least twenty years since I’ve seen this person, and nearly as long since I’ve set foot on a stage. But the lessons are with me always.

Sadly, this is not actual footage of Gus. But Gus is a mindset. And we are all Gus.

It’s not an understatement to say that I grew up in the theater. If this sounds like I hail from glamorous stars or aggressive stage parents, neither could be further from the truth. When I was four, a family friend recruited me for a local production of Jesus Christ Superstar that was in need of a toddler to round out the ensemble. My role consisted of walking slowly across the stage in just one scene. That was all it took. I was sold.  

The theater became my greatest classroom, its lessons applicable to life onstage and off. But the most salient takeaway had nothing to do with performing. It was spending time with the likes of Gus — a chorus of adults who didn’t take themselves too seriously. Who engaged in make-believe and delighted in folly. There is something life-affirming about broadcasting one’s love to a wider audience, if only for a moment.

Yay?

Growing up, my dad always said, “Life is too serious to be taken seriously.” (A motto that resulted from misquoting Groucho Marx paraphrasing Oscar Wilde, like an intergenerational game of telephone.) And while some things are too solemn to be taken any other way, it is not sustainable to dwell there indefinitely. Levity is the remedy, elusive though it may be.

A lot of people hate on musical theater or slapstick comedy or choreographed dances or other demonstrations of unbridled frivolity, and that’s their prerogative. Humor is subjective. I’m not here to offer prescriptive methods of engaging with folly. Some of us are dance-in-the-mirror folks and some are not.

It doesn’t really matter where it comes from, or how you find it, but with Gus as my witness, expressions of joy are liberating. There is magic in the mundane. Particularly in the mundane.

My friend Mike, a visual artist, is adept at spotting such moments. He often films materials in motion — scraps of fabric or plastic tarps dancing in the wind. The same scenes other people would walk right by become transfixing, meditative studies when captured through his eyes.  

There’s a Roald Dahl quote that often makes the rounds: “Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”

I’ve found that you can watch the world with glittering eyes, as he suggests, but also with tired eyes, disillusioned eyes, third-year-of-a-pandemic-without-much-needed-guidance eyes. Your eyes don’t have to glitter. They just have to see.

You needn’t look too hard to discover that mundanity and magic are not so far apart. Neither, for that matter, are seriousness and folly. They are different ways of coping with the absurdity of existence, different lenses through which to process the same mysteries.

Any way you slice it, life is pretty weird. Dinosaurs were a thing. The Jetsons once glorified video calls — the future! — which are now an inescapable nightmare. The world is made up of molecules. Don’t get me started on outer space. It’s pretty wild stuff, this existing. It helps if you can laugh at it. (Dance breaks totally optional.)

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Modern Witch Tarot Deck by Lisa Sterle

Ah, the Four of Swords. I used to think this card was scary. But then I learned the history behind its more iconic imagery, and it became a favorite.

Medieval knights lived their days on a razor’s edge, never certain what the future would hold. (Sound familiar?) Their sarcophagi were often prepared while they were still alive, so they could have a hand in crafting their legacy. Upon successful return from battle, a knight would retreat to their spot in the funeral complex, sometimes even resting inside their tomb. It was an act of gratitude and humility — offering thanks that they were still alive, taking a moment of well-deserved rest, and reaffirming their mission moving forward.

What looks, at first glance, like a scene of defeat or exhaustion is also a moment of reflection, an acknowledgment of temporality, a chance for transcendence.

All of us are living our own Four of Swords moment. It may feel like we’re hanging on by a thread, slogging through, “languishing.” The road was not short. We’ve seen some things, been through some others, still have more to do.

But here we are.

Maybe you pulled an all-nighter. Or worked a double shift. Or your kitchen is back to moonlighting as an office, school, and diner, all at once. Or perhaps you’re just wading into the third year of a global pandemic where the guidance feels as murky as ever.

The Four of Swords asks: What do you need right now? What would help you to feel more present, mentally and physically? How can you make the most of this moment? What might help you to move forward, to greet the next one with a renewed perspective?

Rest, it turns out, is not optional, even if we act like it is. It’s not negotiable. It’s not a reward. It is a very necessary part of recovery, healing, regeneration.

This card acknowledges all we’ve been through and tells us it is time to gather new strength. Draw a bath, take a walk, or just tuck yourself into a room and stare at the wall for five minutes. Sometimes withdrawal is necessary for recovery. It can also help us gain perspective.

Whether due to a marathon or malaise, the Four of Swords says your feelings are valid. Acknowledge them. Try to befriend them. While you’re at it, acknowledge how far you’ve come. Much like the knight, against all odds, you are here. By virtue of that alone, you are doing great.

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