Here’s a strange thing: I’ve several times lent books to materialist friends that I think they may find interesting.  And they have nearly all been returned unread, for a variety of reasons.   Couldn’t get into it, got so many others on my to read pile, not my kind of thing etc.  

These were books on reincarnation or on transcendental experiences.  And I remembered when I was a materialist too, and someone gave me a similarly wafty book.  I wouldn’t have read it either.   And the reasons are many. 

1)      I’m well read enough in so many areas of humanity’s experience, why do I need more when there’s no evidence?

2)      If there was irrefutable evidence, we’d know about it.   It would be all over the media. 

3)      It’s a waste of time to read something I know I won’t rate. 

4)       If I read and don’t like it I may offend my friend who lent it to me

5)      If I read it and I do like it, will I have to abandon everything I’ve believed all my life? 

6)      If I do abandon what I’ve believed, will I be a) mentally ill. b ) derided and mocked by others c) pushed out and ignored by my colleagues and peers d) given the sack? (especially if I work in the sciences or education) e) treated like an idiot and my opinion on everything else discounted?  

Although no one has called in the men in white coats for me, I am aware that I’ve lost credibility among many of my materialist friends.  My husband calls my interest in things spiritual and philosophical ‘pixie’ business, and asks if I’ve polished my broomstick recently. 

A strange thing is that I don’t care.  I find I rather like the pixie and broomstick jokes.   And there are enough other things to talk about, although when I consider my huge and overwhelming sense of joy and happiness most of the time, I’m very sorry that others are denying themselves that benefit.  One of my dear friends who did read one of my books said that the evidence, such as it is, all depends on anecdote (the subjective) or statistics (lies, damned lies and statistics).   And this surely  leaves us with nowhere to go.  

It is all subjective.   And real.  My husband, who is reading The Book of the Sun as I write, says that it could all be my unconscious imagination.   And I can’t argue with that.  But if he’s right our unconscious must be the most amazing place, full of the strangest, most miraculous of wonders.