In The Fog

It's one of those fabulous, foggy mornings. Mornings that make me think of magic, of Merlin, of Celtic warriors bursting through the fog on horses dripping in dew and breathing dual plumes of steam. In slow motion, of course, with stirring music thundering in the background.

Truth is, of course, all that is really hidden in this fog outside my window is my dogs and my donkeys. The only sound I can expect is the blaring braying of a donkey lamenting the size of his hay portion. The horses are in the barn for their breakfast after a long night of dripping dew in the dark field. The dogs are busy exploring what came and went in the night while they slept in the mudroom. All is quiet, all is well, all is just as usual, only hidden in mist. But within the mist, the trees are just as solid, the grass just as yellow, the rock is still a rock. The truth of their being is still the truth, however shrouded it may be. That is the ongoing gift of Nature. The closest thing we come to real reality in our solid world.

 

Photo by Cindy Strate

Yes, the truth is still the truth, however shrouded in myth and mist it might be. That could be a slogan for the state of the world today. All the debating,  posturing,  justifying,  theorizing,  intellectualizing, politicizing and  rationalizing gather in one great whirlpool of gray at the very core of which lies one still, little grain of truth, all covered up in the swirling mess, all covered up and unspoken for. Call it what you will, wrap it in bubble wrap, wrap it in pretty paper and a big red bow, cover it in syrup and jam it down our collective throat, the truth is what it is, it never changes despite all that mental fog we keep dishing out in all directions. Everybody is right, and everybody is wrong, but how many of our talking heads are actually addressing the underlying truth of anything?

Photo by Cindy Strate

 

They are not. We are forgetting the most fundamental truths. We are being taken in by the pretty mist and the fabulous fog, drowning in the gray whirlpool of debate. We don't even look for that grain of truth anymore, the quiet center of clarity. Political correctness does not allow for that, nobody must be wrong, nobody can get their feelings hurt, everyone's claims must be met. Unless, of course, they don't fit your bill. Then you can call them every name in the book, ridicule, denigrate and bury them in your assessment of their own inferiority. And the crowd goes wild.

It's all smoke and mirrors. We are back in the Coliseum of Rome. It's us against them, them against the others, the others for themselves. And justice, ah, well. That is in the eye of the beholder. Why look for the driver of the machine when we can rage against the machine itself?

Because the truth is just too damn simple. The truth does not allow for everyone's little drama to be important, to matter, to be heard. The truth doesn't care about anyone, it doesn't take sides - the truth simply is. The truth is a bare bones debacle, where voices are raised only to fall silent, for all arguments fall away in the face of it's simplicity.

So what's true anymore? The same as it's always been. Hidden in the fog, mosying in the mist. Only this mist won't clear out by noon. If you want the truth, you're going to have to dig for it, and dig deep. Not out there, either. In there. In you.

Sucks, doesn't it?