What Cannot Be Explained

When you live close to the natural world, chances are you will experience mysterious events. Living on the borders of other worlds we barely understand, often presents moments in which the veil between the two slips away and there is a brief opening to see more. Many times what we observe isn't clearly understood, but nonetheless it leaves a sense of wonder behind. Long ago places where this happened were considered holy because it was believed that the mystery had chosen to reside in that place because its innate majesty and beauty honored and mirrored the mystery itself. Our human capacity to be awakened to this awareness is the threshold of our faith and religion. For thousands of years humankind has been attempting to explain and capture and understand the very same awe felt by our earliest ancestors in the presence of the numinous and unexplainable. Even though there are enormous differences in what we believe the mystery to be, our response has been universal: music, art, literature, poetry; seeking, questioning and wondering and then sadly, often fighting between those who believe what they see is the only understanding.
It is the nature of mystery though, not to be known. Like the human heart, it is unexplainable. There are times when we see into each other, those fragile moments when big pieces of who we are can be sensed and loved by others, but our complete self, the essence of our being, is utterly known only to what cannot be explained.
Recently, one of my guests pointed out this shape on the bark of a tree close to the lake house. We stood together taking in the amazing occurrence of the shape of an owl created by the shedding bark. This has been a summer of owls, an animal rich in symbolism and portent. How it happened to be there, or just happened to be noticed, is a mystery. But to my heart, it didn't matter. I took it in as a blessing.
Perhaps this is part of the need for mystery. Maybe by not being able to explain those moments when the veil is lifted, we are given an opportunity. When the moment arrives and we are open to it, maybe what we are feeling is the mystery seeing every bit of our hearts and accepting all that is there.

I am, you anxious one.
Don't you sense me, ready to break
into being at your touch?
My murmurings surround you like shadowy wings.
Can't you see me standing before you
cloaked in stillness?
Hasn't my longing ripened in you
from the beginning
as fruit ripens on a branch?
I am the dream you are dreaming.
When you want to awaken, I am that wanting:
I grow strong in the beauty you behold.
And with the silence of stars I enfold
your cities made by time.
Rilke, "Ich bin, du Angstlicher. Horst du much nicht."