The next yama is Satya or Truthfulness. As a creative nonfiction writer I have a very special relationship to this one. I have been debated the meaning of 'truth' and 'what is true' and 'telling the truth in writing' for many years with some of the most fabulous writers I know. Thing is, we all disagree. The two ends of the spectrum are to-the-letter, fact by fact telling of tales versus, well, who could forget A Million Little Pieces, right?
Satya is truth in its most sincere form. It is letting go of pretense and simply being who you are. It is about not playing ourselves too small or too large but just being humble without thinking of the results. We all do this in our daily lives... we tell stories to make that embarrassing moment not seem so bad or add emphasis like 'it was the best ever' to make our moments ones we can talk about again and again. Satya means getting in touch with the true you and just being. No too-cool-for-school attitudes allowed...
One translation of the definition brings it so far as truth in the very words you speak. That even if something is literally true you should not speak it if you know it is not entirely truthful or if it is meant to deceive others. This is where writing comes in for me, with the big question 'what is true?' Can you write about a dream and call it true because you experienced it? Can you call a childhood memory from when you were four true - even if the actual events were not what they seemed to you at the time? I believe yes, that these things can be true if they are used to convey a deeper truth. Perhaps that is taking Satya to a different level... but I think that it may be an acceptable one since it would mean sharing a truth of self instead of one just in words.
For example, the poem below is a piece I wrote in college that was written from true events. Is it the most straightforward piece I have ever offered? No. Though it does show the way the news I received at the time made me feel. And in a lot of cases the words are both literally true and serving to create the greater imagery of the poem. Is it true? I would tell you yes. Word for word? Perhaps not. See what you think. Because, honestly, what do I know?
Holy Ghosts
The windows in the chapel let the water move through their glass and into my open Psalms where I have been collecting blood from my wrists, watching it pool – mixing like oil with the pond’s translucent black. Forgive him. Forgive him the mutilation, the holes, the burns, the bites and scratches. Forget running through the church and climbing the wall around the graveyard. Forget how we abused and chewed the body together. The body he became. Forgive my Adam.
“They stole it in handfuls” “Children don’t understand communion.” “They know not what they do.” Presbyterians use bread, soft and bite size – if we were raised Catholic it never would have happened. Catholics hide God high on the shelves and feed you. It was too easy to raid the kitchen and swipe, too joyous to squish the bread into tiny squares, compressed holy gifts. We hid behind tomb stones and fed the birds, never guessing they may be heaven-sent and laughing at us.
My mother told me now you are to have a son. A boy you don’t remember making with a girl who took you when you were far away gone, but you will be there when he calls out for his father and confirmation. How will you explain the scars, your negatively charged days, and how your mind jumps back and forth between poles? I will bring ribbon and hold his hand. We’ll dance pagan around you like it were May til you forget boiling blood pumping through your thick veins.
We will be buried side by side and dance together under every full moon scattering bread crumbs of our childhood. I will be barefoot and you will laugh at my pierced feet leaving a trail behind us in the dew and green of our plot. We will be gory, with glorified open wounds. Yours screaming of disorder while mine hum hymns of sacrifice and crucifixion. How could I leave you to be eaten alone? I slit my wrists in church. And become wine.
