The Accessibility of Truth : Part Two

The woman returned to the humble task of folding napkins.

“If I were my mother…”, said the woman, “…I’d be ironing them.”

The girl smiled, finishing up her biscuit and gently wiping her mouth with the linen napkin before setting it down on the table next to her plate.  Her hands folded under her chin, and elbows on the table, she leaned forward.  The woman took it as a sign to continue.

“Just because these truths, or bits of information are lost, doesn’t mean they’re gone for good, or inaccessible to us as humans.  It just means that they’re more difficult to access.”

The woman picked up the pile of freshly laundered and folded white napkins and walked back into the kitchen.  She placed them neatly in a drawer then returned to the table for the girl’s plate.

“Think of a black hole not as a bottomless pit of darkness, but as an opening in the material world.”, she said as she rinsed the plate and put it in the dishwasher.

“It sucks up light, information, and shoots it out into an alternate world on the other end of the black hole.” She said as she again wiped her hands on her apron and sat back down in her chair at the table.

“Like a hose.”, said the girl tentatively.

“Yes…”, smiled the woman, “…very much like a hose.”  The girl was encouraged.

“Physically going there and retrieving the information is…”

“Impossible!”, interrupted the girl.

The woman winked, “Improbable.”

“However, we can access that world, and others, by tapping into the black hole within us, that is us.”, she said repeatedly pressing her hand over her heart in emphasis.

The girl’s brow wrinkled again.  They woman laughed lovingly.

“Energy from the Earth rises up within us, spiraling its way up through our bodies, awakening sacred energies that have always existed within us, but that reason will not allow us to see. This energy travels up through a series of electrical pathways finally igniting our mind and opening our eyes to that which can not be see mechanically.”

The woman reached for the pitcher to pour herself a glass of tea.

“Reason…”, sighed the woman as she lifted the pitcher, “…is the enemy of the improbable, trying at every turn to defeat the delicate and fleeting world of possibility.”

The girl smiled.  She liked the sound of that.  It was true, of course, but she liked how the words sounded. Like something monks might chant in a lost language.

The girl leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.  “What about from above?”, said the girl with her eyes still closed, “What about from the heavens?”

Good, thought the woman.  “Yes, the energy flows downward as well.”  The girl smiled, pleased with herself.

“Energy…”, continued the woman, “…information, then flows freely from one dimension to the next, and the lost truths become accessible again.  There are as many ways to accomplish this as there are souls on the planet.  Some arrive through meditation, others prayer,  even a shock to the system can be an awakening of energies.  …some unique souls never lost the truths.  The soft spot on their head never hardened fully, blocking out the flow.”

The girl opened her eyes.  “Really?”


The girl raised a disapproving eyebrow at the woman and leaned back in her chair again closing her eyes.  The woman laughed…as did the girl.



The Corruption of Truth : Part One

“We, in our human form, are very similar to black holes.”

The girl looked disappointed.

The woman noticed.  “…not in a negative sense, I’m not speaking of a void…which I think is a misconception about black holes anyway…”  Her voice trailed off, following her thoughts.  The woman smiled with eyes closed and shook her head gently as if trying to nudge her mind back onto its tracks. “We are similar in that we consistently operate on two planes of existence.  …well more than two, but for our purposes, let’s stick with two.”

The girl listened carefully and followed, wide eyed, the woman’s every movement, as if the act of blinking would cause her to miss something important.  The girl watched every gesture of the woman’s delicate hands as she folded a small pile of linen napkins on the table next to her.  She observed the occasional sharp upward turn of her eyes when she was thinking, and tried to interpret the secret language of the woman’s body while absorbing the explicit language of her words.

“We are spiral vortices that suck up information.  Once a piece of information is within us it is very difficult to retrieve.  The only way we can share that information, on the material plane, is through communication…”

The girl nodded, her eyes locked on to those of the woman.  Blue on blue.  The woman searched the girls eyes for evidence of understanding.  Finding it, she was satisfied and continued.

“…which, of course…”, the woman smiled and rolled her eyes, “…is nearly futile, as communication always corrupts the original kernel of information.”

Now the girl was confused.  She wrinkled her lovely smooth brow.  “How so?”

“In order to communicate in a material sense, information must be processed within us, and in that process we color the information with our feelings, belief systems, rationale, experiences, and so on.  When the information finally emerges from us in the form of written or verbal communication it is no longer in it’s original form.  It is corrupt.”  The woman stopped to tuck a strand of her long, dark, silver streaked hair back into the bun she wore low, at the nape of her neck.

The girl nodded in agreement.  “…makes sense.”  The woman smiled, and refilled the girl’s glass of tea from the pitcher that was on the table beside them.  “Thank you”, said the girl as she lifted the glass to her rose colored lips. “Please, go on.”

“Then…”, exclaimed the woman throwing her hands up in the air for effect, “…to further obscure the original content of the information, the listener, or reader…the receiver, let’s just say, of said information, must internalize and process the information as well, leading to additional mutation.”

“Now…”, said the woman as she walked into the kitchen and removed the biscuits from the oven.

The house smelled good, in the way that only a house filled with love, warmth, and freshly baked biscuits does, thought the girl.

“…I am not saying this is necessarily a bad thing.  Many interesting ideas are formed in this way.  What I am saying is that this is how many essential truths are lost.”

The woman put all but one of the biscuits in a cloth lined basket sitting there on the counter.  She folded the edges of the cloth over the warm bread. Then with the tips of her fingers, she picked up the last one and placed it on a beautiful blue and white porcelain plate.  She opened the stainless steel refrigerator and removed the butter dish. The girl watched as the woman buttered the last golden icon of the South.

“Do you want honey or jelly?  Or both?”, asked the woman.  “Neither.”, smiled the girl.  “I’ll have it just like that, thank you.”  The woman smiled, nodded, and returned the butter dish to the refrigerator.  “You’re welcome baby girl.”, she replied as she ambled over to the kitchen table where the two women, one young and one not quite so, were talking.  She placed the buttermilk biscuit directly in front of the girl, and handed her a linen napkin from the pile she had been folding.

The woman wiped invisible crumbs from her hands on the front of her apron and sat down as the girl bit into the biscuit.  “Mmmm.”, came the familiar utterance.  The woman smiled, happy to nourish the girl.



S. Conde