There are some phenomena which are beyond our comprehension but for which we do not doubt a cause—the movement of ocean waves, magnets, rainbows.

There are two things, if they can be called "things", for which I can't grasp a cause—my mind and the whole of the universe. The universe is a big bite, so I'll leave it alone. When I think about my own being, my own mind (are they the same?), I know that I live from moment to moment, I am here as I am based on what I was the moment before. I have memory, knowledge, desire, fear, and hope. But where did I get my start? How did I begin? I do not know and the mystery seems profoundly confusing to me.

Here I hit a brick wall. What does it mean that I do not know my own origins? What does this imply for my life, my awareness, my action and my living? The common answer seems to be to reject the thought entirely. Live as if it doesn't matter, but in almost every word and thought, there seems to me to be the underlying acknowledgement that we live a mystery in our every moment and every breath.

If I am un-created, then perhaps I have always existed; but this is an unsatisfactory circular answer. Perhaps I have never existed, but this seems to be obviously false. Deeper, though, perhaps that I have never existed is not so unhelpful: I seem to have a sphere of being which is uniquely mine, which is Me, but maybe this is an illusion. Perhaps my thoughts and your thoughts and the thoughts of the universe from here to the farthest reaches of the Big Bang (what a piece of mythic and scientific creationism) are all the same thought. In fact this is precisely true, if you consider thought to be more than the immediate stream of words which pass though my own mind: I am vitally connected to every event and phenomenon from here to there. My space impinges on the space next to me, and so on and so on to infinity (infinity: another piece of scientific myth hypothesis). Then my mind is a small piece of global mind, universal mind. I am the expression of the universal as it is manifest in this particular environment which I call Me.

Not only is my own origination a mystery, but, so too, many of my experiences seem to arrive from causeless sources. Currents of beauty of awe, and eternity pass through me. What is it in me these outside influences resonate with to create in me impressions that don't seem to come from me?