When reality came to be what I saw
when I opened my eyes, rather than what I was sure I’d see as I kept them
clamped shut, I reached the understanding that the truth was not always
obvious. It often required an act of the
will, like what we experience when we try to wake up from a deep sleep. And
only after years of waking up over and
over did I realize I’d been falling asleep.
There seem to be different kinds
of truth, but there are not. It’s true
I’m pretty free with the facts or lack of them when I’m telling a story for its
entertainment value. I do distinguish
between storytelling and truth telling.
But each holds the truth in its own way.
I am very careful about my honesty when I conduct my affairs with other
people and when judging myself. I wasn’t
always so careful.
In writing, there is so-called
literal truth, but a story teller is not very interested in the literal truth of anything if it doesn’t serve the
story. And for me, the sharp accuracy of
fact is not something I worry about when writing a tale. In the realm of
storytelling, I understand there are those who think literal truth is very
important, but I'm not one of them. For
me, truth is seldom precise. It is often confusing.
The Oglala Sioux shaman Black Elk
would begin each spiritual tale by saying, "This is the way it happened.
Or maybe it didn't, but it could have. And
anyway, this is what carries the truth." I try to carry the truth, if not always the
facts.
There are factual truths such as
gravity and other scientific concepts that we feel pretty sure of. There is truth that is much more
personal. It touches us where we live
and for me it parallels the “three times” of discernment spoken of by Ignatius
of Loyola. Truth may be a logical
construct, or it may come from the experience of living life. Truth may rise from a certainty lying deep
within us, a conviction we may not be able to measure or describe. We just know
it's there. Truth is not arithmetic. It is language. It comes not from working
a formula, nor is it a dramatic testimony. It is more like the continuing
unfolding of a story.
I sense that behind it all there
is a single truth in the Universe, though I can’t begin to define it. My failure to explain the ineffable speaks
only to my humanness and not to a lack of truth in creation. It is there, all around us. If I needed proof, I can think of only one
piece of evidence for the existence of truth … our age-old desire to find it.
Copyright 2011, 2015 David Griffin
Windswept Press
Murrells
Inlet, South Carolina
