Throwing. Forwards, sideways, backwards.
I’m not a very good thrower.
I hold. I’m good at holding.
Yet, I found myself throwing down words, one after the other;
for almost three months without stopping.
I threw out a book. I threw out what I thought was a book.
Now, I see something different.
I see a young woman, throwing away her childhood,
entering a new phase of life. This life, now, opens onto the page.
It opens with a new chapter: on writing.
I see this woman, throwing herself at this pursuit.
Confused, dazed; as, in this chapter, the pages are blank.
It is she who must fill them. She takes a deep breath,
a pause, for she knows what she must do. It is not an easy task.
But throw, she must.
With all her heart, passion, and commitment – she must throw herself at the page.
To land, and become the work of art she already knows exists.
The beautiful tapestry, the maze of her pre-life.
Joined now, at this moment, with her current life.
It’s a story she needs to weave, to understand,
and then it will be known to the world.
For better, or worse. It will be thrown.
Then, she can let go. Drop the ball.
Say to herself, “Now I have learnt what it means to throw.”
It’s not the act itself that poses the threat. It’s the moment of letting go,
risking losing, of being empty.
At the same time, being empty is what she seeks.
Underneath the writing, lies the emptiness.
The words are down. They are out.
Only after she has been throwing down the words,
will she know what it is to be released.
There, she rests her head, her body. There, the dreams can settle at night.
Another net is cast. A fish is caught.
And the throwing of words will be fresh as morning dew – ready to be released once more.