What, a llama?!! Or in which blogging is a bucket.

Those of you who know me are probably saying, what, you?  A blog?  Its like finding a llama where you wanted a corpse.  Yah, weird.  So let me tell you how it started.  Several things contributed to this unforeseen happening, but for now, I will blame the raspberries. 

In my yard is a raspberry bush.  Not just any raspberry bush though: a sneaky, cheeky, beautiful, flirtatious, generous, and whimsical bush.  It pushes past the fence meant to support it, produces fruit overnight, grows upwards in glorious asymmetry, prickles any who push it too hard, and generally lives a fierce, fearless life. 

Picking berries is more an experience than a chore.  Sweet and warm, they come in a staggering variety of flavors and textures that burst on the tongue.  Soft and knobbly, they plop gratefully down next to their fellows in the mug brought to catch all those that are simply too numerous to eat at once.  See them with me: red gems shining in the green of the leaves.  Standing above the bushes, there seem to be more than I could ever pick.  In flashes of light pink I see there will be as many more tomorrow, and the day after. 

Moving leaves and branches gently, turning, pulling, pushing aside to reveal what lies behind, my nimble fingers work quickly, scooping in little red treasures, until all I see is vibrant green and pale pink, until my oversized mug is filled to above the brim.  How satisfying that I didn’t miss a single ripe berry to whither in the sun into a little old lady of a raspberry raisin.

Now, here comes the scary part.  I crouch down low, and look up.  Red berries are suddenly everywhere, far more of them than I care to try to count.  Far more than will fit into my already full mug.  How wrong I was, standing in my upright self-assurance by the raspberry bushes.  I can’t even blame this on the work of trolls, because while trolls exist, all they do is steal your socks.  They don’t spontaneously generate more ripe raspberries.

Life is like that a lot of times.  A slight change of perspective is all that is needed to show us real truths, things we might have been missing for months and years.  Things we will never know even existed if we don’t take the trouble to cock our head sideways and see what is there.  This ain't easy, since it often involves stooping, and usually involves going back into the house for a bigger container, because the small mental mug we sallied forth with so glibly is simply not going to cut it.  

What does this have to do with blogging?  Well, for a long time I have looked at blogging as self-indulgent, and rather pretentious.  The real good in life, I figured, is in talking in person with real live people.  Of course, I thought all this while greatly enjoying several actual blogs, and never thinking of their writers as self-indulgent or pretentious.  Or thinking they ignored real people or real life.  Kind of the opposite, actually.

What I suddenly realized is that a blog is a bucket.  Yup, you heard me, a bucket.  It is a great way to capture thoughts.  To discipline our minds into thinking about things in an orderly fashion (as is required if you want to consider writing them down), and therefore to glean the value from them.  It lets us collect them, so they don’t fly through our minds at the speed of light, only to be forgotten and left to turn into little stooped and crumbling raisins.  There are many more buckets out there, in all shapes and sizes.  Musical ones, philosophical ones, artistic ones, ones who are dear friends and pen pals.  But this comes conveniently to hand, and I desperately need to upgrade my ceramic mug.  So, indeedy, I am blogging.  I am taking my bucket, and intend to look at things for above, beneath, and perhaps sometimes upside down.  You are welcome to come for the ride, or not, as you please.