Embracing the Great Mystery

I am better off than he is—for he knows nothing, and thinks that he knows. I neither know nor think that I know.

—Plato

Our minds are not geared towards the realisation of truth, although they are capable of such a feat. Instead, our chemistry is designed for survival, procreation, and the continuation of the species. Our drive to feed our families and be respected in society might be virtuous, but many of the prophets and mystics who walked this earth were heretics. They gave it all away. They went against the grain. They caused a stir in our comfortable enclosures. Jesus said, "Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword."

When we walk down the street, how often do we stop to smell the flowers, or even realise there are any flowers? We no longer see the forest for the trees. This is both a problem and a blessing. Our brain has a wonderful faculty that automates the known, but the question is: how do we know the known? We do not know the known! The flower we walked by is not the same as yesterday, nor is the day passing in the same fashion. In this way, we lose our sense of awe in life. Indeed, the word “awful” once meant “full of awe,” but now, through overuse, it simply refers to something unpleasant. Isn’t it unpleasant that we create a sense of comfort that is free from surprises, which disconnects us from the present moment? As a result, we spend more time dwelling in the past or anticipating the future, trying to find awe in some other moment–that is awful.

To know something is a great arrogance. To be in a relationship and say, “I know this person,” is a profound limitation. Where is the space for that person to grow? Where is their freedom to change? Everything changes. Everyone changes. To truly love someone is to be awed by their mystery and open to their evolution. Thinking you know someone is a prison.

I once had a friend who travelled the world for a year, and when she returned, people said, “Oh look! You’re back!” and she would reply, “No, no, no, I am not back. I am forward.” It was important for her to endure a moment of discomfort so the other person could meet her as a new person, embracing the changes she had clearly gone through. This is why it is difficult for some people to attend family affairs. Those who knew you when you were younger often place you straight back in the box of their own associations, remembering you as you were. And you, in turn, play the part—suddenly triggered or arguing with your siblings or parents, as if you were a teenager in your family home once again. How sad it is that we see the ones we love and care about as we want to see them, instead of stepping back to witness the mystery they are.

“And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? 

And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?”

—Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

We are creatures of comfort, and we believe it is safer, more comfortable, to associate our world with preconceptions than it is to see with new eyes. It might seem safer and more comfortable, but it is dangerous; it is painful. It is this arrogance for which we suffer. This automation leaves us in a daze, a dream, and results in the loss of true awareness of what is. A loss of awareness means unconsciousness; it means being asleep. We are on autopilot—mechanical, predictable. This dulls the edge of the sword of our discrimination.

Sharpening the sword that cuts through illusion means waking up. Waking up means taking the steering wheel. It means burning bright toward heaven. It means seeing with new eyes. The eyes of a child are often surprised by the little details of the world. When we look out into the world as if for the first time, we become more and more dumbfounded, more curious.

Look at your hands, for God’s sake—a miracle! A wonder of the world!

Every eye, every encounter, every vista, and every old corner is a reminder of this miracle. Every time you open your eyes and every time you close them––a miracle.

An epigram commonly attributed to Albert Einstein goes: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

What arrogance to think that you—moving in flesh and marrow, thinking in abstraction and reason—you—standing on this giant, round, green and blue organism hurtling through dark, empty space, watching the sun rise in the east and set in the west—you—awake and aware, breathing and alive—are not the utterly absurd miracle of all miracles?

When you open your eyes, 

who does that? 

How does it happen?

A miracle!

When you rise to stand, 

to walk, to move, 

who moves you?

How on earth is this happening?

A miracle!

The song begins with a tempo. 

Who starts it? 

Who decides?

A miracle!

The tempo takes over,

the space is open. 

Who opens? 

Who conspires?

How on earth is any of this happening?

A miracle.

Excerpt from Walking the Forest Path: Volume 1, available in early 2025.