Unicycle places.

When I was small, three or four years old, living in a tropical country south of the equator, there was an empty concrete pad along a path not far from our house. I don't know what it was for. Sometimes I'd pass it on a walk with Mom. I don't know why, but, for some reason, I called it "the unicycle place." Of course, it wasn't that, but I imagined that it was.

Why does this occur to me now, decades later? I don't know. Maybe it's that we sometimes see something we don't understand, and try to supply our own explanation of what it must be. That's a normal thing, until we start becoming adamant that our explanation is the only possible one.

There is a true explanation. That concrete pad did have some reason for existence; I just didn't know it. And then, there are the one's we come up with: "the unicycle place." A discussion of a situation we can only really guess at in Paul's writing. We make it a unicycle place, and argue over whose unicycle place is better, more accurate.