“I’m in love with the mystery, and I don’t know what it is,” said Advaita sage HWL Poonja.
We could just as easily substitute “reality” or “truth” or “my very own true self”
for mystery, whatever word has the most resonance.
It’s the not-knowing that gives rise to the love—what we can’t possibly know is endlessly rich
and open and intriguing, an inexhaustible source of wonder.
When we don’t pretend to know, life is ever unfolding in this extraordinary and ungraspable way,
beyond the mind’s ability to understand or control.
Of course, Poonjaji knew that he was (you are, I am) the very mystery that he was in love with
—yet he also knew that we are always at once the admirer and the admired,
the worshiper and the worshiped, ready to prostrate ourselves at the feet of what we really are.
Indeed, this paradoxical dance between personal and universal
is one of the mystery's most fascinating expressions.
Ultimately, the mystery is in love with itself.
We could just as easily substitute “reality” or “truth” or “my very own true self”
for mystery, whatever word has the most resonance.
It’s the not-knowing that gives rise to the love—what we can’t possibly know is endlessly rich
and open and intriguing, an inexhaustible source of wonder.
When we don’t pretend to know, life is ever unfolding in this extraordinary and ungraspable way,
beyond the mind’s ability to understand or control.
Of course, Poonjaji knew that he was (you are, I am) the very mystery that he was in love with
—yet he also knew that we are always at once the admirer and the admired,
the worshiper and the worshiped, ready to prostrate ourselves at the feet of what we really are.
Indeed, this paradoxical dance between personal and universal
is one of the mystery's most fascinating expressions.
Ultimately, the mystery is in love with itself.
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