Sharing spirit experiences so intimate and powerful they hurt.

It seems as though one of the lessons I am due to learn, or anticipate, is that Pearls Before Swine thing. I am back in the American south among rednecks again. I expect the local gossip to show up any moment and ply me with questions about my trip to then garble as he talks about me to the neighbors.
How can I (though the big question, really, is SHOULD I?) explain how it changed me to hold the Mahatma Letters for hours in The British Library. I feel my heart squirming every time I even try to generalize about who and what the masters are, even to other theosophists; I do not want to cast these pearls here, before these folks. Spending so much time with the robe of St. Francis. Touching a pillar Jesus may have leaned against as he taught, and another one swarming with ancient passions outside a monastery in Ireland. That poor hurting child who’d been abandoned to the plague under the streets of Edinburgh and how she cried for us to love her. So many such memories have changed me so radically, and upped my sensitivities to the point where I don’t even want to go out among the people here, let alone try to share what the trip really has been for me.

They have changed me, though, as I begin my next novel, and discover that “The Mourning After” may have been just the first in a series of stories bringing ancient truths to a changing world hungry for them in tales even common folks can enjoy. So these changes in me will be shared. But I wonder just how much I should post on Facebook, or try to summarize and simplify for those who really aren’t interested anyway; they are just making small talk.
This isn’t small talk for me. And some things cannot be shared. Others shouldn’t be.
This is very hard and hurtful for me to try to sort through.

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