“When truth is buried, it grows. It chokes. It gathers such an explosive force that on
the day it bursts out, it blows up everything with it.” – Émile Zola
The truth is a mighty-splintered thing and it’s own force of nature. Damn-near invisible at times; after we’ve tucked it into places and it waits–festering for years until it erupts like a 30 year old pus sack hell-bent on freedom. Upon it’s release, the jagged edges, not dulled as we’d hoped but sharpened across time, can rip individual hearts and those of communities wide open with unwavering clarity and upend the roots each have attached to and adopted as identity and reality. Yet, it is always revealed. Sometimes in our lifetime, sometimes after several generations.
We watch as the definition of truth appears to morph around us; falling out of favor, not as tasty as the dramatic that may provide more flavor, kicking our excitable bits into gear. Others have sliced it up into tiny enough bits, that we don’t even have to chew on what we see or hear. We can swallow whole-heartedly and move on through the busy-ness.
That these things and this are unfolding in this time are not coincidental.
This is the backdrop.
The drop cloth, too.