Last night I dreamed of a poem about Truth. I had not written or even read this poem but was searching for it and for someone who would perform the poem. I could see and read the title of the poem, “Truth” on my opened laptop and I was interviewing people who wanted to perform it. I was conducting the interviews in the back of a packed bus (I don’t know our destination) and there were several volunteers, though I knew none were quite right for the part. They were all too young. I remember thinking that they weren’t old enough to understand Truth and therefore couldn’t perform it with the respect and passion it was due. Perhaps I was hoping for Maya Angelou to read it.

Now in my awake time, I wonder what Truth is? Is it a thing? Is there Truth?

Emily Dickenson thought Truth was a Being, God’s Twin.  

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I cannot define Truth as it shapeshifts to the perception of each of us. If my truth might not be your truth, then what is Truth?

Truth is a mysterious culmination of evolving facts. Like God, Truth can only be believed, for it is not seen or heard, but felt in our souls. Truth exists whether we like it or not, cherish it or not, worship it or not, fear it or revere it. For some like me, reaching for Truth is a constant attempt to understand the elusive.

 Where does Truth reside? I’ve grown to understand that Truth is everywhere, like the air we breathe, and that Truth belongs to everyone. And like the air we breathe, Truth is mistreated: whitewashed, bent, twisted, tarnished, varnished, manipulated, misappropriated, and even killed. Yet Truth endures. It seems that Truth is more treasured and adored by those who have lived through the mistreatment of lies. It makes me wonder if we can value Truth without having witnessed its torture.

I have hope that having witnessed the torture of Truth, She will disrobe Her tattered garments and in Her nakedness She will reveal Herself more splendidly than ever.