I know what a free throw is, by context. It's not a paid-for throw. I know what a quarterback is, too, and that there's no three-quarters back, but there's either halfbacks or fullbacks or both. As I type this, I realize that people could have been saying "fallbacks" this whole time, which would certainly make more sense, but then nothing really make sense when you get close up. Not sports, not blogging, not life.
Of course, just because something doesn't make sense doesn't mean it's incorrect, or bad, or dangerous, or silly. It just means it is wild and it grows, and that growth sometimes tangles into neighboring vines. It just means it isn't simple. Maybe we've lost sight of where it was originally planted. Maybe we've stopped being able to predict it's future. Maybe we still haven't figured out if it is poisonous, or nurturing, or something in between.
But we somehow always know when the roots are strong, and that is enough reason to water it until we love it.
But then what?
That's of the strangest questions I ever ask myself.
"But then what?"
People often talk about the voices in their head. I have a friend who says he still hears his mom telling him to take it step by step, when he is overwhelmed by projects. I can almost hear her, too, when his shoulders relax and his eyes focus.
I have a cousin who hears her first love, saying she is beautiful, every time she looks in the mirror. I've never known anyone to look so fondly and peacefully into a reflection of themselves.
I have voices in my head, too, like anyone, but most are formed into questions. My uncle used to say, how we question our experiences is how we perceive them.
Experience is really just our measure of growth. Growth is good. Neighboring vines grow into my tangles. Sometimes I grow forward, sometimes I grow up, sometimes I seem to stand still but I am blossoming. Often, I am just a base for my neighbors to blossom against.
It is all part of the process, and processing is important. Writing is a therapy. Therapy is a process.
But then what?
There has to be an end point to the game, or why begin it? Why name the throws? Why give some away for free? Why take the time to decide if the back is full or halved or quartered?
What?
Yeah. I lost track of this one, too. Metaphors tangle like vines if you don't watch them carefully. Talking about things that you don't understand is a one way ticket to questions you can't answer. Blogging about things you can't understand brings you to even more chaos, and yet I can't stop writing about life, can't stop trying to solve its riddles.
I like to look closely at things that don't make sense.
I look in the mirror and there's a tangled brown girl staring back. She's grown since the first time I saw her. She has shrunk a bit, too, but somehow I know that the roots are still strong.
I water her. I water her. I promise, I water her.
All the while trying to ignore the voice that asks...
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I had the joy of meeting some very-special-to-me bloggers this year and never wrote follow up posts. Those will come as NanoPoblano goes on, but this particular post was inspired by a conversation I had with Sreejit and Bill Friday. Freethrow, what? Go sports!
