In a world of diminishing mystery, the unknown persists.
― Jhumpa Lahiri, The Lowland

Valentine’s Day blew into the high school in a tsunami of red and pink bouquets, waves upon waves of roses, life-sized Teddy bears, and heart-shaped boxes laden with assorted fine chocolates. The storm, which started as soon as the first school bell rang, ultimately came to rest on long tables that lined the back wall of the cafeteria. It was a bounty to behold. Needless to say, little learning took place on Valentine’s Day, and the custodians were left with the aftermath of the storm: classrooms and hallways strewn with crushed petals, candy wrappers, and ribbons.

There were those who left school with their arms and hearts full. And, sadly, there were those who left empty-handed, those whom the storm had simply ravaged, not blessed. As I watched them leave for the day, I wanted to wind the clock back, to return them to their elementary classrooms where their Valentine’s boxes–soon to be filled with cards and candies–sat in neat rows of construction-paper creations on the windowsill. I wanted them to feel the possibilities of an empty box, the mystery of what could be.

As novelist Jhumpa Lahiri writes, we live in a world of diminishing mystery. We know so many things, and what we don’t know, we’re confident that we’ll know very soon. We’ve grown to expect answers and explanations for everything. Most often, we’re not disappointed. But the unknown persists in an empty box; it teases us with all sorts of pleasures and, for a time, suspends us in hope.

Even as a child, the box was the thing for me. More than the bounty of Valentine’s cards, candy, and gum, I took the greatest pleasure in imagining what my Valentine’s box would hold. What types of Valentines had my friends chosen for me? Would they be store-bought or homemade? Would there be candy taped to the back? Would there be a handwritten message or just a name? For the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, I marveled in the mysterious unknown.

In her novel, The Secret Life of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd writes:

I realized it for the first time in my life: there is nothing but mystery in the world, how it hides behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days, shining brightly, and we don’t even know it.

For many of us, mystery probably does hide behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days. Often, we’re much too focused on what is to give much thought to what could be. To retrieve our faith in mystery, we’d probably have to turn the clock way back to childhood where it was shining brightly more days than not.

A few nights ago, my grandson, Griffin, came over. When I asked him what he wanted to do, he said, “Can we do those experiments? You know, the kind where we see what happens when we put different things in water?” From the time he was a toddler, Griff has loved water. We’ve filled the kitchen sink, the bathtub, the largest mixing bowl–you name it, and we’ve filled it. He’s floated things, sunk things, mixed and colored things. Suffice it to say, we’ve experimented with water. A lot.

And so, I filled the bowl with water and watched as he went straight to the candy jar where there was an assortment of Jolly Ranchers. “I’m going to try just the orange ones first,” he said as he sorted out the red and blue ones. Amused, I chuckled because he’s tried this “experiment” so many times that I’ve lost count. But happy, I smiled because he relishes the unknown, the possibility that this time might be different, that this time might result in something wholly unexpected and miraculous. It didn’t. After much stirring, the water eventually assumed a puny orange tint–as it always has–and he dumped it out. Still, it wasn’t about the results but about those moments of mystery that a bowl of water, like an empty box, presents.

19th century Scottish novelist Robert Louis Stevenson claims that the unknown always seems sublime. We know that, for some, this isn’t always so. As adults, we know that the unknown can often seem frightening, confusing, and depressing. As adults, we might stand in front of our Valentine’s boxes with trepidation, fearing the dark possibility that we’ve received no Valentines at all. For us, life often tarnishes the bright mystery of an empty box.

Still, even as we plow through our poor, browbeat days, mystery is shining brightly even when we don’t know it. To know it, we need good mentors. And we probably need look no farther than the nearest child who, for a glorious season, lives in a world where mystery abounds in something as simple as a bowl of water or an empty box.