My grandmother instilled the virtue of honesty in us like it was the most important thing one person could achieve in life.

Absolute honesty in all things, even the most minor, even when it would get you into trouble — although omission, dodging or careful wording seems to be allowed.

I was writing a memoir of our trip to Scotland when I first realized my problem. I distinctly remember the crunching of wet pebbles under my feet during a short walk. Upon viewing pictures from the trip I saw, to my dismay, that the path was not gravel at all but concrete. I lied. As my world came crashing around me I removed the disgusting lie of crunchy gravel from the paragraph and took the next few moments to assuage my guilt.

I took a drink from a blue mug. Was it blue? Or was it grey? I needed to be sure. If I said it was blue but it was really grey, I’ve lied, I’ve not been authentic, I’ve not told the truth.

I’ve long believed that Truth was relative, but that facts should be, well, factual, wherever possible. I had some lofty idea of Truth as some mystical thing to be gained by intense personal devotion to it. If the mug is blue, it cannot be anything else, and if some Truth is to be relayed through a red mug which is actually blue, it takes something away from the Truth itself.

But I’ve decided it is simply impossible to be completely Truth full.

It is not in our genetics, it’s not part of our makeup, it is inhuman.

Maybe I’ve been missing the point all along. Maybe it’s not always important —the colour of the mug — maybe we should focus on the story and what we can learn from it. Not necessarily what facts we can learn, but what kinds of Truth we can learn. Transcendent Holy Truth.

At the same time, being as factual as possible is important. Where it is not possible, I still refuse to willingly include information that is so far from the truth. In the end the Truth is the highest ideal to strive for, shortcomings will happen, but I cannot abandon my grandmother’s teachings so easily, and that’s the truth.