That is one of the beauties of the ultimate mystery: You can never say, “Here it is” and describe it in detail. You could do that, but the more you do it, the more you create a veil. Even to say that the ultimate truth is the Absolute—what does that mean? It doesn't describe anything. Or when we say that the ultimate truth is emptiness, what does that mean? It doesn’t mean that nothing is there. “Mystery” is the word I like to use, and the other is “indeterminate”—not in the sense that you can't know anything about ultimate truth, but rather that the knowing is inexhaustible. The more you know, the more you are aware that your knowledge is still limited. That mystery, that indeterminacy, does not become a problem; it becomes the way of love, because love loves it to be like that. You love the indeterminacy because it gives you so much nourishment, so many images; it always delights you. It's never-ending. It never gets stale. It reveals the nature of one mystery to you—and the next moment, that is completely broken down, dissolved. You think you've got it, and the next day: "Fat chance! Can't catch me that way.” Finally, you take your head and give it away. Because the head is what wants to fix the mystery into some form: “It is this . . . It is that . . . Now I’ve got it: that's it!" The heart, on the other hand, is dynamic, is always moving.