The opposite of "the truth" is a lie.
Right?
The older I get, the more maturity I acquire, the less I believe this.
Life used to be so precise for me. It was either right or it was wrong. White was reflection of all colors, and thus the opposite of black. Simple. Clear cut.
Not so much any more. I now view beautiful shades of pearl and silver, gray and slate, all shouldering their way into the space separating black from white on the spectrum of experience. But life is also overflowing now with paint cans of uncertainty.
It's rather disconcerting. But it forces me to listen more closely, to observe others more humanely. The truth told by one person and contradicted by another might still represent the truth. It doesn't mean that one of them is "lying." I have found that it very often means their personal experiences of the same event were vastly different or that time has molded their truth into a protective cover, one that was necessary for survival.
This happened to me recently. I heard one story, then a completely different version of that "truth." I pondered. I chewed on it. I stewed. And then I thought, "What difference does it make to me right now, other than the fact that I simply must know 'the truth'?"
Do I really? Does it matter to my life today? Or is it all simply more drama?
Both versions painted shades of the truth for the people it encompassed. It serves some purpose for them. And even if I am one of those people, I have my own truths, too, my own recollections of how things unwrapped themselves within the context of my life. Eternally unique.
Right?
The older I get, the more maturity I acquire, the less I believe this.
Life used to be so precise for me. It was either right or it was wrong. White was reflection of all colors, and thus the opposite of black. Simple. Clear cut.
Not so much any more. I now view beautiful shades of pearl and silver, gray and slate, all shouldering their way into the space separating black from white on the spectrum of experience. But life is also overflowing now with paint cans of uncertainty.
It's rather disconcerting. But it forces me to listen more closely, to observe others more humanely. The truth told by one person and contradicted by another might still represent the truth. It doesn't mean that one of them is "lying." I have found that it very often means their personal experiences of the same event were vastly different or that time has molded their truth into a protective cover, one that was necessary for survival.
This happened to me recently. I heard one story, then a completely different version of that "truth." I pondered. I chewed on it. I stewed. And then I thought, "What difference does it make to me right now, other than the fact that I simply must know 'the truth'?"
Do I really? Does it matter to my life today? Or is it all simply more drama?
Both versions painted shades of the truth for the people it encompassed. It serves some purpose for them. And even if I am one of those people, I have my own truths, too, my own recollections of how things unwrapped themselves within the context of my life. Eternally unique.
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