For much of my life, mystery had little room to breathe. In the life of a diagnostician, “I don’t know” can become the end of the matter. But there is another kind of not knowing, one that leaves the door open. It allows different questions to arise. Not only what was this? But also, what might this be asking of me? How am I to receive it?
A breakfast with a good friend is never a disappointment, even when the conversation begins with shop talk—or in this case, the pros and cons of AI.
What opens when good friends meet is often more than conversation. A window appears onto something unplanned, something not on the agenda when the meal began.
I have a friend who sometimes says, almost with relief, “Well, this time there was no agenda.” I know what he means. Agendas have their place, but they can also get in the way of deeper sharing. They can push a conversation too quickly toward answers, outcomes, or accomplishment
This morning, though, I came with at least a hint of an agenda. I wanted to tell him about the recent event in which I lost the memory of a few hours. It seemed important to me that he know what had happened.
What I did not expect was the way he would hear it.
I told the story as someone trained to name things. That is what I have done for most of my life. When something unusual happens, the instinct is to identify it, define it, and place it somewhere that makes sense. Even if no cause can be found, there is comfort in giving it a name. A name can make an experience feel contained.
But that is not where the conversation went.
My friend did not rush to explain it. And in his way of listening, I began to see how quickly I had wanted closure. I wanted a name, even if the name explained very little. I wanted the box before I had really sat with what had happened.
But some things are not given to us so quickly. Some things ask to remain open.
As we talked, I found myself less interested in naming the event and more willing to let it remain, for a while, a mystery. Not mystery as failure. Not mystery as ignorance. But mystery as something still unfolding, something not yet ready to be closed.
For much of my life, mystery had little room to breathe. In the life of a diagnostician, “I don’t know” can become the end of the matter. But there is another kind of not knowing, one that leaves the door open. It allows different questions to arise. Not only, what was this? But also, what might this be asking of me? How am I to receive it?
© 2026 Tim George. All rights reserved.
Shared Tomatoes
Stories, reflections, and books for noticing the grace carried in small things.