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There’s an old story about a young person who finds something magical in the woods. They return to it again and again. Each visit bringing joy to their felt-sense of being alive.
 
Eventually as people do, they tell someone else. The good news spreads and others start to visit. Then crowds gather, which need to be organized. It isn’t long before the original gift needs protecting. In time the protection grows and becomes ornate. Eventually few people remember the actual thing anymore. Until finally magical accounts take the place of direct experience.
 
One day what was found there disappears, taking form elsewhere as the simple, luminous, and uncelebrated.