mystery

It is strange to be here. The mystery never leaves you alone. Behind your image, below your words, above your thoughts, the silence of another world waits. A world lives within you. No one else can bring you news of this inner world.

Unexplained, obscure matters are regarded as more important than explained, clear ones.

Within this arena, which grows more stable night after day, generations work and love and hope and vanish.  New generations tread on the corpses of their fathers, continue the work above the abyss and struggle to tame the dread mystery.  How?  By cultivating a single field, by kissing a woman, by studying a stone, an animal, an idea.

Science is not meant to cure us of mystery, but to reinvent and reinvigorate it.

To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, not even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.

We each walk our own path. All paths lead to the same destination but different beings arrive at it at different times. Each path is like a mystery that unfolds as we travel it. The journey itself  is half the fun!

Eating with the fullest pleasure - pleasure, that is, that does not depend on ignorance - is perhaps the profoundest enactment of our connection with the world. In this pleasure we experience and celebrate our dependence and our gratitude, for we are living from mystery, from creatures we did not make and powers we cannot comprehend.

Soon the child's clear eye is clouded over by ideas and opinions, preconceptions and abstractions.  Simple free being becomes encrusted with the burdensome armor of the ego.  Not until years later does an instinct come that a vital sense of mystery has been withdrawn.  The sun glints through the pines, and the heart is pierced in a moment of beauty and strange pain, like a memory of paradise.  After that day we become seekers.

I am dying into your mystery, and dying, I am now no other than that mystery.  I open to your majesty as an orchard welcomes rain, and twenty times that.

Was it a light only she could see?
A gypsy's spell?  A mystery?