Her face lit up like phosphorescence
in the sea at night
when she spoke of the mystery
around the origin of the eels—
Afterward,
I imagined solving the puzzle—
Finding the elusive answer labeled,
“magical” by the great logician Aristotle
regarding their reproduction,
and why they seem to originate from a
singular geography—
I imagined telling her, dispelling her awe
and of what her response might be—
and of how I would likely see the spell of wonder
break like a shadow across her face—
I’d see a yarn so masterfully woven
by the Mystery itself, unraveled
by my own ruinous research—
So,
I no longer want to know
where the eels come from,
or why the flowers bloom,
or why Spring follows Winter
or why Everything is —
And,
I ponder the bliss of awe in the Mystery,
and I rest in the deepest knowing of the Heart,
that sees the vastness of this miraculous display
of the millions of myriad mysteries
dancing before and all around me
of which we are a small part—
and in the smallness of my
understandings
of them,
and I’m okay
with that bliss
and that kind of
knowing.
And then I realize the true lesson here—
That when we discover how the magician
creates the illusion, somehow
it ruins the whole wondrous show—
And that the shimmering wonderlight
of a true cosmic mystery
far outshines the satisfaction
of solving it.
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