mystery

If I'm learning anything, it's that mystery, in truth, is not:

sophisticated,
put-together,
altogether reasonable,
lofty,
grand,
popular,
attractive,
restful,
calming,
or even beautiful.

It's that, in truth, mystery is:

difficult,
shrouding,
plain,
unassuming,
frustrating,
meek,
unavoidable,
yet hidden.

It is the square brown chest behind file boxes in the attic, containing a grandmother's embroidery and whatever lies beneath it.

It is the tug of time-sense on a street corner, where instead of SUVs there were Model As, there were slow hoof-beats and cart wheels creaking, there was the river in flood and the valley green, verdant under a June sky, there were women carrying clothes to the rocky shore.

It is the smell of sweat in a field, the muscle ache of another shovelful. The sound that wasn't there last try, the clank and reverberation of something under soil, something foreign, something laid there. It is, "Oh. I didn't know about this before."

Comments

Cherie said…
Nice!!
Dee Ready said…
Dear Deanna,
And for me, mystery is truly mysterious.

Peace.
Deanna said…
Thank you, Cherie.

Dee, yes, I think I'd like to try expressing the fog or the dimness a while and let what's beyond become apparent as it will, in the good ways it reveals itself. But I must become a patient soul, and that is difficult.