Nomina Numina

I began documenting my experiences early on as those inner events unfolded in my life. Privately, of course, in my own personal journal. My reasons for this were: 1.) to keep a record of my experiences, 2.) to process them as they unfold, and 3.) to process them again later, after they settle in mind and memory. In all of that, however, I never thought of sharing it publicly. And I still don’t. My personal journal is a very private thing and therefore not to be shared. And there are many reasons for me not to share any of it.

When intimacy enters public view, for example, it becomes subject to interpretation and manipulation. Strangers often do not witness with care; they consume with reckless ease or predatory hunger. Every comment, every share, every algorithmic amplification adds noise to a signal that was once pristine and meant for quiet meditation. The sacred flattens into triviality when rendered consumable.

Then there’s the ineffable nature of the uncanny. The human tongue is incapable of speaking of reality without also betraying it. Writing to bridge that gap only somehow widens the schism. Each word narrows what should expand. Each line traps what should roam free. Each question answered only multiplies tenfold. How does one overcome this paradox?

Another reason not to share is that what I’m trying to convey may not survive the medium's noise. The open web invites all comers, but it also amplifies every static burst into something that distracts and garbles rather than clarifies. I have no way of controlling what the message becomes once it leaves my hands—how it gets parsed, clipped, or twisted in someone else’s memory. A truth given to the internet may become a burden or a weapon, neither of which serves my original purpose, however altruistic.

There’s also the fact that digital permanence outlasts all good intentions. What feels necessary today may feel dangerous tomorrow, especially when deletion is impossible. The web remembers in ways humans do not. I must weigh my future peace with present catharsis.

Though not everything real must be rendered in public. Silence can also be a kind of testimony. And what I share here is only partial disclosure, for there are things that cannot and should not be shared, or shared very sparingly.

There is wisdom in withholding.

⁂

But this blog is not my private journal. And though I’m careful about what I share and how I share it, I fully understand there are risks in doing so. And for all of the reasons not to share it, there are reasons that still compel me to do so.

Certain truths, like people, require crossing thresholds to become more fully themselves by participating in the fabric of reality rather than proving their existence. That the telling is only truly complete when it’s shared with the world—not as a proof—but as testimony.

Yet, despite the necessity of closing the loop of telling, the ineffable strains and evades ordinary language. It isn’t simply the inner lived experience that is a challenge; it is also the investigation into that experience that has lasting, often difficult implications for both author and reader, which may never be fully resolved.

For in the investigation and the documenting, there’s always the friction of doubt. And beyond that doubt lies the writing itself, as it comes to exist in some form, shaped by the frameworks the author has applied and the cultural perspective accumulated. Cobbled together using words and phrasing that may not, in part or in whole, reflect the truth of the subject at hand. Thus, the telling, any telling, is subjective and, to some degree, flawed.

But is that any reason to dismiss said experiences, either as participant or witness, and ultimately refuse their telling?

No.

The inner lived experience—the awe, the wonder—only becomes legible when externalized, even when very few, if any, understand it. Because in the careful sharing of it, there is a kind of alchemy that transforms not the experience itself or its memory, but our perception and grasp of it.

I do not have a name for this desire to document my testimony. Perhaps it doesn’t need a name. Or, maybe the name will come later through the act of writing itself. Concepts precede the meaning of words, and words form only after one has circled the subject enough times to know something of its true nature and character.

Maybe this compulsion—to drag the invisible into the light, to press spirit into ink—is what happens when creatures made of dust choose to dream in light. The body stays restless until it leaves its mark upon the world.

So I leave this here, a partial disclosure. A faint signal amid the growing noise.

We were here, once, and our love lives on.

#Liminality #Spirituality #Mysticism

∞