I was once told to refrain from widely sharing sacred experiences. I used to think the reasoning behind this advice was that somehow, in the sharing, those experiences would lose their savor. Of course, in the context of my life as a Christian woman, this doesn’t make much sense. At no one point have I been told, “Be careful how often you read the scriptures, you’d hate to wear the poor things out”.
Rather, I think I was told to keep the personally sacred to myself because it is impossible to transmit transcendence - at best your audience can only hope to understand you, at worst they’ll work to misconstrue you. Both reactions hurt in surprising and lasting ways.
That being said, very few things seem real to me until I’ve written them down and pressed publish. Whether this makes me a writer’s writer or a product of the sharing generation is up for debate. Someday, I’ll sit in a therapists office and they’ll assign motivation to my misconduct. Until then, I’ll just keep (mis)conducting myself as I see fit.
All to say, I am going to start writing more of the things that have lead me to Spirit and Fire. And sometimes it will be too much and sometimes it won’t be enough. And never will it be capable of leading you to what I feel I’ve found. Even if it could, you wouldn't want it, anyways. Not when you can find your own holy grails and burning bushes. But it will be a record of something that mattered to me. And while my own recordings of the sacred will never contain the Grace of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, they are the bits of light I was accorded during this lifetime. And maybe, if I am lucky, they will be the light my children see me in when I’ve been forced from this place.