Truth is like the sky, a cloak draping over all us, surrounding us, an unusual cloak we all can breathe in and out, streams of her fabric floating in and out of our nostrils each day. Are you aware of her?
She never departs from us, for we see her if we choose to. And we can only see her if we choose to. It is like looking up after we are crouched down, legs in arms, head buried into our laps, in the dark crevices of the cave created between our stricken face, and walls of our legs and arms, to find ourselves refreshed by her non-judgmental yet enlightened presence. You see her in the sunlight, in the freshness of the air, and right then, you know that there is more to life, of both simple tranquility and spellbinding, sweeping significance, lying beyond the walls of your self-created snare.
Yet as a cloak, she had always wrapped around us even when our heads are buried. You always breathe her fresh air, and her sunlight always tap-dances upon your skin, and at night she accompanies you in your sadness when you believe you are alone. Did you see her there?
Truth has been there before all sentient beings as a sky had been, creating her works with no one watching, spilling paint upon the broad panoramic canvas with no eyes to see. She spoke presciently of the joys, the sorrows, the angst, and of all contemplations man will experience but struggle to convey with the vastest array of colors, sounds, and special effects such as lightning and rainbows. She knew from the beginning what was eternal.
We are there, always in truth, we cannot help but be submersed, she is active and she is always creating her works around us, and we see her yet cannot trust her eternal presence. We fear she may leave us as did a beloved, we fear Others will win her over and we must fight to keep her away from Them, but truth is of an abundant source, ever nourishing, forever there, for everyone.
But we cannot trust in the eternality of truth, and that is why the history of humankind is full of strife. She revealed herself to every tribe, expressing her love to each unconditionally. Every morning, without fail, she shown the lantern of her sun in a wonderful display to their eyes, she carried this light of her enlightenment for them throughout the day, and every sunset she promised her return with yet another display, as she needed to serve others on the other side.
But they grew desperate, and they needed to corral truth in for themselves. They had become her shepherds, but she cannot exist as sheep. When our vision of her stands above Others’, the vision before us is a mirage and we are only desperately projecting the image of her as sheep drinking by a faraway lake, because we believe ourselves to be thirsting in a desert.
Thirst not, for truth surrounds you and you always breathe her. Have confidence in this, and that she breathes through the souls of Others. She presents herself in different forms, perhaps as variegated clouds to one tribe and as a pure true blue to another on the same day, and another day she is different to both. This difference between tribes and between times frightens them, and thus they believe she may leave them and thus go to war over for her.
This sense of desperation spreads as a plague which everyone took for real and became sick with, despite its unreality. We watch with a hooked vigilance out towards truth. When we tracked that she changed form, we condemn the new form. The old must remain. Eventually as we settle for the new form, and cease fighting it, we condemn the old form. We command that the new then must always transform into newer and that we always bonfire all previous incarnations of the old. But what do we remember of tyrannies of government that done that? Must these tyrannies also exist in our own selves?
Yet the significance of the old remains eternal and brilliant as the new. We never deeply knew the old for we never lived naked and open to the sky’s elements as have tribal folk, to the truth in nature at all times, and thus condemn them as merely primitive. And all the folk who followed had their very own significance, and they breathed of an air of their time that was as rich as ours. Today we never can experience the breathing of this air as completely, but one can seek to understand with imagination. They all speak of truths those of today do not know, but because their words seem primitive to today’s slick, sophisticated tongue, we cannot get to the essence of their experience.
And therein lies the rub, truth is in the experience—panoramic, moment-to-moment, physical, visceral, expressed in the multitude of lives that thrived and struggled on this earth. It is translated miserably through the clumsy tussling of the tongue and compressed in the warbling of consonants. It has been reduced and compacted. Yet we take this canned reduction others attempt to convey to us and throw out their experiences with the can in the blink of apathy.
We deem their sounds foreign if opposed to the typical sound-bites of our own truths. In a vacuum, like a scientist, we place their sterilized experiences in the form of words, and cast our determinations upon them. If their words exude the slightest scent of cultured or rough tongue, of ecstatic romanticism or rational precision, or of spirituality or atheism—whichever half of the binary opposite to our own—we invalidate their experiences and person.
There is a fundamental element of truth found in the experience of all, whichever half the binary they fall under. Some may make poor translations and understandings of it, even resorting to unhealthy or unhelpful words. But with an attentive ear, we can unearth the underlying truth of what they attempt to say. And this is where the healing of the world starts, if beneath the battle cries against one another we attune to what each side is trying to convey via our intuitions.
Yes, we choose one path to travel, and it is in fact impossible to do otherwise. But allow others to walk their own paths, and experience the truth through their travels. The truth given to all through the experience of living is real and so is to be validated, and though you walk your own path, your perspective is enriched by hearing of others’ travels. In the end, despite categories and words, there is a cohesive whole richer than either, when one looks from the standpoint of truth down upon every path, to see them interwoven into a tapestry of collective experience.
Truth’s secret is that, like the sky, she is a shape-shifter, but she is eternally made up of the same elements. This is a secret which the subtle recesses of our hearts know, but we do not notice; we are not even aware of when our hearts beat. It takes silence to hear and realize. Relax in the tranquil silent knowing of truth’s eternality, and act in love. Love is confirmation of truth’s eternal oneness, because we turn towards love when we know that she is shared with all and abundant to all rather than a merciless and stingy divider we fear siding on the wrong side of. Truth’s inexhaustible as the air around us.