Examining Truth

Because I love you all, and in the hopes of fostering better discussion while we are with loved ones this holiday season, let's talk about Big-T truths and Little-T truths. If you study the ancients, please feel free to correct my definitions.

Big-T truth is the idea that if we continue to learn, discuss, share, and listen we will be able to get to truths that are irrefutable. Big-T truth requires discussing things that are uncomfortable, sitting with that discomfort, arguing in ways that are open to new ideas, and continuing the discussion until we understand and acknowledge differences and perspectives.

In my experience, people do not want to find Big-T truth because they would rather keep the peace. People will say, “let’s agree to disagree,” but it is impossible to even approach the truth if we aren’t willing to keep talking and keep listening.

A more common approach is to claim that our favorite little-T truths are big-T truths and that the other person just doesn’t get it. At best, that claim shows up as fear, and at worst it is deeply harmful. To find big-T truth we have to be willing to be wrong a lot. That is deeply difficult for most people. The good news is that it gets easier when we begin to see the value of Little-T truths.

Little-T truths are helpful when trying to form our identity and narrative, or when we are trying to make connections or find people to trust with our hearts. I need to be able to say, “in my experience, this has been true.” It gives me a platform to stand on where I can see what is true for me and how that might not be true for everyone. It is important to acknowledge that most of the truth we claim comes from Little T truths based on our experience.

Maybe this holiday season we can open our hearts a little and acknowledge that the world is a big place, and our vantage point is only one of many valuable vantage points that need to be considered.

On Another's Sorrow by William Blake

Today, this poem by William Blake, touched my heart. I believe this message needs to be shared and embraced. Many of our hearts are broken. It is important to sorrow together and remember who sorrows with us.

On Another's Sorrow

Can I see another's woe,
and not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief
and not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
and not feel my sorrow's share,
can a father see his child
weep, nor be with sorrow filld?

Can a mother sit and hear
an infant groan, and infant fear?
No, no never can it be.
Never never can it be.

And can he who smiles on all
hear the wren with sorrows small,
hear the small birds grief and care,
hear the woes that infants bear

and not sit beside the nest
pouring pity in their breast;
and not sit the cradle near
weeping tear on infant's tear;

and not sit both night and day,
wiping all our tears away?
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.

He doth give his joy to all.
He becomes the infant small.
He becomes the man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
and thy maker is not by.
Think not thou canst weep a tear
and thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy,
that our grief he may destroy;
till our grief is fled and gone
he doth sit by us and moan.

Knots

Knots

Why isn’t this working? 
This poetry of place.
I write…Hovenweep, a title.

In the light of the red stone castles, we walked.
Sunset’s unwavering glow changing shadows, making 
memories dance.
In this deserted valley, on rocks made from sunlight and blood
my children play. Giggles from the past layer on giggles today.

My heart stays, you can do better. Try again.
But it isn’t coming. The pen stalls.
There was too much in that place…too much emotion, joy
and history. I try again.

Ancient currents of the divine flow through the red sand
entering my heart. My soul lunges forward seeing beautiful
ghosts through open, ancient windows.
I grasp loves hand, feeling the warmth of shared admiration.

I read it, unsatisfied. I can't make it work
this poetry of sacred space.

Sprawled on my green lawn I try opening my heart to the heavens, to those
who have a story I want to share. Why aren’t you helping me?
Just try again, the only reply, though I suspect it is not from the source I asked.
I try again.

In a mess of blood and genes, histories of many souls lie dormant,
bigger than time and space; in restless slumber.
Rocks speak as she passes by, wake up.
Grandmothers, great, the dead ones wait with understanding
of the depth and breadth of eternal experience.

I stop, because inspiration pauses. I wait, then sigh.
I do not know how to tie them together.

Ballroom Memoirs

Ballroom Memoirs

By Carrie Ann King Johnson

My leg wrapped around

your sinuous muscle.

A beat, then twist.

Sweet seduction

courses through my blood.

It takes two to tango,

you reply

in a whisper on my neck.

Each move pulls the heart

from my chest

as our bodies slide

skin on skin

to the next step,

another position.

Music disappears to background

as hip digs into thigh,

my head falling into a lunge

then stop.

Breathing steadily, we bow.

It takes two to tango,

you whisper, take me home.