What's the connection between midsummer and mystery?

Summer has bounded into this valley. I have roller skis such a silly thing but my body loves the motion of skiing so some days I ski up long paved mountain roads and hitch hike back down.  The rides are always interesting. I skied on Friday. All around the snow melt water was crashing down the valleys flooding roads and making much noise. I had tickets to see Joshua Bell in the evening gifted from the local radio station and in the front row. The performance was like the first day of Summer like the new water. We ate late. I had blueberry ginger goat cheese salad it tasted like it was  re-telling my mouth a story about the day. We walked the dogs along the edge of town in the dark.
 Saturday was a nanny work day. I took the girls on a bike ride along the river. We filled my pack with drift wood picked out of an eddy full of flotsam and foam. We spit cherry pits from our lunch. Julia had dribbled some cherry juice on her leg and convinced me the ever gullible that she was truly injured. Fiona spit most of her pits into my hair by mistake. We collected stones and watched a wild green watered creek enter the brown silt of the bigger Colorado River. The day was hot and child slow. We ate dinner on the porch. I found some wrinkled blueberries in the back of their fridge and some crumbly old Gouda cheese and made a homemade sort of the salad like the fancy one from the night before. The girls drowsed off quickly after baths and books.
Sunday in the afternoon Katalin and I found each-other and hiked a fast sweat making trail I had never done before. It is called the Difficult Trail. It goes nowhere just ends.  Dawn and I had tickets to see Salman Rushdie talk in the evening at the Aspen Institute for the Aspen Writer's Foundation. He was brilliant formidable funny and we laughed that deep whole body unstoppable kind of laughter and sat spell-bound silent too.
And here is where the mystery comes in. Later that night a friend asked me about my father. It was a week end of being, of living like my father lived. I was thinking how he showed me how to question everything, not from a place of defiance, but of curiosity, and to find in that questioning not answers, not a wealth of knowledge, but mystery, bucketfuls of mystery.