Dark matter, consciousness, death, love — sweet set up to sell stuff.

Mystery lurks lucrative, so someone will always be hawking some witchery here, some voodoo there, magic, hocus-pocus, rhino horn, ecstacy, patent medicine.

But what is mystery?

Is it waving wand, silly staff, potent drug, scientific theory or secret glen? Is it esoteric syntax, new tech, plastic cross?

I think it’s nothing like that, nothing behind the curtain, gorilla glass, trees. It’s no hidden valley, magic hat or moving hand; no poetic cadge, literary cajolery, scientific skullduggery, religious legerdemain, no techno-tricks, no super-app, no tomb, mountain, moon or cave.

Mystery is not witch, wizard, wonk or wise one pulling levers behind the scene.

Mystery needs no proponents. It needs no operator, no literature, no religion, no science, no opiates, no humbug, physicist, diviner, historian, alchemist, prophet, priest, astronomer, amman, poet, shaman or techie.

For there, in every bit and bite, frag and piece and slice of life and world and space and time,

Exists the quiddity, the essence, the quintessence, the very non-not-nucleus of mystery.

Mysterium tremendum et fascinans —

It is the reflection of the tree in my bird bath this morning.

My tapping keyboard,

The cat sleeping beside me,

The rectangle of sun on the nook table,

And you, gone off to shop,

And return again because of your love for me.

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