Running and writing - with and without the names

I went for a walk today. Not a run. Not a dance. A walk. But, now that I think about it, there were times when I ran. There were a few lovely swooping sections which flowed downwards in such a way that it seemed rude not to run. I sprinted, then slowed to a canter, then via a slow trot returned to walking.

Then I stopped for a bit. I even bent over, picked a weed a tasted it to see if was some kind of wild rocket. And maybe I did a little dance. But overall I think I'd have to call it a walk. What else, really, could I call it?

This question actually has ramifications.
As a runner I want the boundaries between walking, running, dancing, jumping, leaping (and whatever else comes to mind, including stopping) to blur. I want my experience to not be named and categorised, placed into a box with a number and a rating: walking is not as good as jogging, running is what I'm aiming for. Stopping is shameful. Sprinting is something I can be proud of. No; when I run (if that's the word I'm going to stick with) or walk or dance or fly (if any of those is the word I'm going to stick with) I want the freedom to do whatever I please.

In one sense I want to forget words. I want to move without definition or restriction.

However, as a writer I want specificity. I want to be able to speak with precision. I walked 2kms along the Bibbulmun Track from the Origins Centre in to Balingup. Beside the track I saw a pile six star pickets and fencing wire in a coil the size of a small child's hula hoop. Blackberries were ripening. The bushes were dense and close to the path but not on it. I liked seeing the berries ranging in colour from bright lipstick red  through blood red to the black maroon of a dark merlot.

I saw a purple plant - a weed - that had the same florette as rocket. I stopped, bent down, picked a leaf and tasted it. Bitter, peppery: maybe it's a relative - a cousin but still in the Brassicaceae (the cabbage) family and, like it, a stowaway from Europe. Maybe it is. I don't know.

I know grass trees. and there's a lovely big banksia down there. Beautiful.

Blackberries.

Without the names of things I feel as if I know nothing. I feel as if I'm groping blindly and anyone who reads what I write would be left completely in the dark. I can't see or give directions. It's useless. All I'm left with is vague judgements like "Beautiful." If I read that word back in a year, or even a week, I won't know what I mean.

Without names, thinking is like looking at a photo and being both completely colour blind and unable to distinguish the boundaries between one shape and the next. A blur. Or is it?

With running it is freedom to not know - to not label but just explore. With writing it is something different. Knowing the words gives you an anchor to know the thing, but perhaps the anchor is, like with running, also limiting. Without words you have to look, to measure, to feel and convey the first hand experience of the thing.

All of which can be captured much faster if I know its name.

Time to hit the trail.