On my desk, sits a key lime La Croix, ice cold and shining with condensation. Outside my window, beneath the breezy sway of maple leaves, the grass crisps to golden brown, thirsty for rain that does not come. In other places, like Libya, rain has come and come and refused to stop coming. It’s too much to take in—the loss and suffering, the death and devastation, the loveliness of leaves, the crunching sounds of dry grass under my feet, the cool pleasure of an icy drink, and
I feel this...the undulation, or maybe pendulation, between capital "T" Truth (broader, roomier - limitless spiritual Truth) and small "t" truth - the vagaries/vicissitudes of human experience. Grateful for both, although the Truth is more elusive *and* feels better when I catch hold of it. Those fleeting moments of Truth make the heavy mantle of truth easier to bear, for sure. Thanks for taking us on this trip with you :)
Thanks for putting words on it
I feel this...the undulation, or maybe pendulation, between capital "T" Truth (broader, roomier - limitless spiritual Truth) and small "t" truth - the vagaries/vicissitudes of human experience. Grateful for both, although the Truth is more elusive *and* feels better when I catch hold of it. Those fleeting moments of Truth make the heavy mantle of truth easier to bear, for sure. Thanks for taking us on this trip with you :)
You know I understand!