I used never to fail to find it when I
turned to it. Then came a set of years when sometimes I found
it, and then again I would be wholly unable to make connection
with it. I remember many occasions on which at night in bed, I
would be unable to get to sleep on account of worry. I turned
this way and that in the darkness, and groped mentally for the
familiar sense of that higher mind of my mind which had always
seemed to be close at hand as it were, closing the passage, and
yielding support, but there was no electric current. A blank was
there instead of IT: I couldn't find anything. Now, at the age
of nearly fifty, my power of getting into connection with it has
entirely left me; and I have to confess that a great help has
gone out of my life. Life has become curiously dead and <65>
indifferent; and I can now see that my old experience was
probably exactly the same thing as the prayers of the orthodox,
only I did not call them by that name. What I have spoken of as
'It' was practically not Spencer's Unknowable, but just my own
instinctive and individual God, whom I relied upon for higher
sympathy, but whom somehow I have lost.
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