In recent months I’ve been infuriated by my failure to find a constant, something that I could write and know to be true. If wisdom slapped me with her right hand I would study it, and she’d slap me with her left. I was under the impression that she would have irrefutable proverbs written on her palms and if I could claim them, I could find success.
Every time I would open my mouth to speak I found myself silently formulating counter-arguments to whatever it was I had wanted to say. This happened frequently enough for me to become bitterly resolved that truth was an impossibility, that I could rely only on the notion that every right answer I found was going to be a little bit wrong. But that bitterness dissolved when I discovered that what I’d really stumbled into was an equilibrium, a beautiful shade of gray in a world that I’d mistakenly labeled as black and white. Right and wrong have come together to harmonize with love and misery, humility seduced confidence, aggression exposed her stomach to compassion, and knowledge became an understanding of my ignorance.