"One's truth is known to no one, and frequently... to oneself least of all."
yet there are times when one's truth can make its way into words. times when that precious, precarious truth bursts the seams of one's attempts at privacy. times when one's truth spills out and is witnessed by others.
times when this witness is a profound gift. (of course, a little truth reminds you of how much more there is to tell. how you might put it differently. reorder the sequence of events. downplay your motivation. sidestep that anecdote.)
but telling one's truth is shedding skins worn too long. its taking one's coat off at last and sitting at the table in earnest. its putting your elbows on the table and leaning in, with others who are leaning in too. it's a fifth glass of wine in the company of listeners.
not hearers. listeners. who are much harder to come by.
::
at an ordinary table in an openplan kitchen in a downtown townhouse
four people took their places, ate brie, shared a meal, drank wine
::
'Tell all the Truth but tell it slant' -
It was More than that - Less than that -
::
in a moonlit city in the southeast of the country
we put our elbows on the table, poured wine, leaned in
::
