Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, or perhaps Jo Nesbo, Camila Lackberg, or Fred Vargas. All writers in the genre of crime and mystery. Or the mystery of religious or cultic rites, mysteries which captivate the heart as well as the mind, leading to mystagogy or initiation into the mysteries themselves.
Then there’s the mystery of the odd sock in the washing basket (conspiracy theories abound), the missing spoon from the set, or the missing piece of the Monopoly game (standard across my circle).
Then there’s the mystery of trees, eucalypts, in a rugged landscape, clinging to life on a rock face, stunted, but undaunted, determined. Perhaps not a true mystery, but mysterious enough for me. There’s litte soil in those cracks, there’s little water, but there they are, trees growing in the rock. Now there’s a mystery.