A Brief and Meandering Ode to Mystery
This morning, on a languid, dérive style walk, I found two mysteries.
They were side by side, seemingly oblivious of one another. The first was squat, and on a lawn — a yard sign that simply read, DON’T GIVE UP. The second was long and on the street — a Ghostbuster’s van, fully replicated, with logo and phone number. It seemed to be filled with chairs.
There was no one nearby to explain these mysteries to me; and so they just existed, quietly, in the breeze.
But I prefer it this way.
We live in a world obsessed with figuring, with answers. There is, of course, beauty in this: scientific breakthroughs, medical marvels, and technological progress — not to mention answers to our questions about both the minute and marvelous — are undeniably supportive.
There is also, however, an inherent mystery to this existence which we simply cannot shake.
Religion may say one thing, or science another, and our personal cosmologies and belief systems may dictate all manner of ideas. And still, at the end of the day, I don’t know where I was before I took my first breath, and I don’t know where I’ll be after I take my last.
It’s so very mysterious,
And try as we might to escape that with apps and charts and breakthroughs and measurements, we will never overcome it in its entirety.
Which is why, then, I love these quiet mysteries. These neighborhood mysteries. These Ghostbusters and yard-sign shaped mysteries.
Because they are playful, yes. They are fun and sweet and bring levity to my day.
But also — and also — they remind me of the inherent mysteriousness of my life,
Which leads me back to wonder,
Which leads me back, inevitably, like a one-way street, to this present moment. How strange it is. How curious.
And how lucky I am to be here, standing, gazing at mystery — gazing at anything — at all.
