If you plant a seed of mystery it doesn't grow you a solution.
It grows a strange plant bearing fruits you can't eat, each one filled with a dozen more seeds.
Mystery seems to beget mystery.
Worthwhile questions seem to beget more questions. You can't dissect the seeds and expect to find a solution without killing the plant inside it. Our need to know everything makes a sacrifice of what we say we want to know.
Our manner of admiring is often the end of that which we profess to admire.
The heartbreaking truth of modern culture is that our manner of loving is often deadly and our curiousity another form of acquisition.
How do we admire in a way that ennobles and behold without seeking to remove the space between ourselves and those we claim to love?
For many of us, our past is a consequence laden testimony to our not knowing another way.
And maybe that past and the ways it echoes on in the world is a mystery too, waiting for us to learn some slower, older and more gracious manner of approach.
It's not so much that we ask too much of it but that there is something mystery asks of us that is all but unknown in this culture - the capacity to be in the presence of something unfamiliar without grasping at it or mauling it with our desire to turn it into something familiar.
Mystery is a small village in a foreign country that you let embrace you as they come to know you slowly.
It's their dinner table at which you sit, attentive, not asking questions but trusting that when you need to know something they will tell you because we know that we are the stranger here, we are the guest, and mystery is the host of everything.
Dr. Who had a good grip on being able to do this.