The Truth about Truth

The black November night was approaching the depths of 4 o’clock when conscious contemplation replaced sleep. How was I going to present my book System Humanity in three weeks? Nothing. My thoughts were incoherent whispers in winds of darkness. They seemed to have gathered in my bladder. I sat up in bed with my feet on the floor and noticed a spot of light on my arm, a round spot about the size of a large star if my arm was the sky. At first I thought the spot of light came from within me, the glow of a weird sore about to burst through my skin. Before I could panic the spot disappeared when I moved my arm. I moved my arm back and could see that it was a spot of light shining on me. What’s going on? Everything is black. I was in a dark room, with a closed door on a dark night. Where did that spot of light come from?

It came from a streetlight over the roof of a house across the street, through the window of the adjoining room and through the keyhole of the door. The spot of light was a key of light. It released a wave of joy.

The smile I wore when I opened my computer burst into amazement. My scheduled blog had just gone live. The last line of the rather abstract poem to a rather abstract picture read:

A spot of light
the truth
shows me the direction
to the garden of healthy humanity.

Wow, wow and double wow! Wait one minute! What truth? There are millions of truths. This question sat at the back of my mind like an itch all day. Hints and suggestions popped up everywhere until I remembered a white dot from many many years ago in England. Strolling along an outdoor art fair, a Jamaican artist, on discovering that I was a teacher, drew a white dot on the pavement with a piece of chalk and asked, “Do you teach them about the dot?”
“What about the dot?” I asked confused.
“Any dot, any spot, anywhere,” he answered. “It’s all connected. Everything is connected to everything. It’s all one. Do you teach them that? You can get to anything anywhere from this dot.”

Yes, it’s all one and everything is connected. The Jamaican’s dot is connected to the dot of light that landed on my arm through a keyhole. Humanity is one and it is part of all life, which is part of the world. Atoms that were present in the air Cleopatra breathed from Caesar’s kiss may be present in my body.

Every truth must be connected to every other truth. I’m sure that’s true, but I don’t know what that means. Or if it matters. Truthfully, it’s comforting to know that my confusion is part of everything.

“It’s OK to be confused about everything
as long as you’re certain about something.”
Dartwill Aquila

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