When did everything we do begin to need a purpose?

This morning, I turned the page of a little desktop book of quotations and found these words from Oscar Wilde:

“Life is too important to be taken seriously.”

I smiled—and thought of a photograph I took on a walk: a sidewalk scattered with colorful chalk drawings, bright little fragments of imagination glowing against the gray.

I imagined the children who had gathered there earlier.

Small hands choosing colors.
A game taking shape as they played.

A flower with uneven petals. A crooked heart. A lopsided face. A sun bursting with far too many rays. Stick figures of animals.

The sidewalk seemed to hold the happy evidence of a very good afternoon.

When we were children, chalk could become almost anything—a magic wand, a treasure map, a hopscotch board, a doorway into a world only we could see. We didn’t stop to ask whether what we were making was productive, impressive, or worthy of anyone’s approval.

We simply made it.
We simply enjoyed it.

And we never worried about keeping it forever.

Sooner or later, footsteps would smudge the lines. Wind would lift the powder into the air. Rain would soften the colors until the drawings disappeared, leaving the sidewalk open and waiting for the next idea.

There is something wonderfully freeing about that.

So much of adulthood is devoted to building, maintaining, planning, achieving, and getting somewhere. Even joy can become another task to master, another place where we feel we must perform well.

But not every part of life needs to carry that kind of weight.

Maybe some afternoons are allowed to exist simply because the sun was warm and we felt like being outside.

Maybe we can make something without wondering whether we’re talented, dance without knowing the steps, sing without having a beautiful voice, or laugh until we can no longer remember what started the laughter.

There is plenty in life that deserves our seriousness.

But we also need places where seriousness cannot follow us—small, bright spaces that remind us being alive is not only about what we build, solve, achieve, or preserve.

Maybe we were never meant to make every mark last.
Some were simply meant to make the day more colorful.

With love,
Clarissa 🤍