William F. Warren, a 19th-century Methodist minister and president of Boston University, believed that the Garden of Eden could be found—believe it or not—at the North Pole. The image above is from his book Paradise Found. While his theory may seem eccentric, there’s a symbolic beauty in it. Like Eden, the North Pole was unreachable for the 19th-century explorer. And like Eden, it offers fleeting glimpses of wonder just beyond reach—the North Pole in its shimmering northern lights, Eden in the lingering goodness of creation.

Warren’s strange journey eventually bowed to Scripture:

“Long-lost Eden is found, but its gates are barred against us. Now, as at the beginning of our exile, a sword turns every way to keep the Way of the Tree of Life . . .” Arriving at Polar Eden, we could do nothing “but hurriedly kneel amid a frozen desolation and, dumb with a nameless awe, let fall a few hot tears above the buried and desolated hearthstone of Humanity’s earliest and loveliest home.” The only way to get back to Eden was in death, if we accept the sacrifice of Christ. Follow Jesus in life, and in death you can walk right past the cherubim with their flaming swords. - William Warren (quoted in Brook Wilensky-Lanford’s “The Last Great Explorer”)

This feels like a fitting opener for this week’s Table. I’ll begin with a story about a man who has a breakdown as his neat, materialist universe crumbles in the face of mystery. Then I’ll share a podcast that had me blinking—mixing mysticism, hallucinogenics, and the supernatural… all on a New York Times platform. And finally, the Mariners. The glorious Mariners—with all our early-season hopes still intact. Enjoy.

There’s a certain genre of poetry and short fiction known as the persona piece—written from a voice not the author’s own, a kind of imaginative empathy. This week’s Table installation is one of those.

A while back, I read about strange fish washing ashore on a Spanish beach—creatures no one could explain. I was struck by how the mysterious still breaks into the world. It made me wonder: could something like this jolt a person into asking bigger questions? This little piece grew out of that wondering.

This last summer a thirteen-foot horned snake fish washed ashore on a Spanish beach. Its silver skin coiled like a ribbon of mercury, the horns more like bone antlers than anything a fish should have. Authorities had to set up a perimeter to keep beach walkers from stopping and gazing and the kids from screaming. Scientists arrived. No one has reached a conclusion, though some, provisionally, have started calling it a previously unknown variety of Oarfish. But even with the title and category "Oarfish" it's hard, at least for me, to not feel that this beast's arrival isn’t a bit rude.

You see, I was just beginning to believe that I knew everything, or, well, at least that I could, with a Wifi signal and the right prompt. But then, without warning, this horned sea-dragon-thing showed up and I searched "How much ocean has been explored" and it seems that 95% continues on, uncharted.

That's not to mention what I saw after I typed in “how big is the universe.” It's as if everything that was "real" to me was just a speck of dust. A small circle eclipsed by a growing unknown immensity beyond my horizon. The more I reach, the more I see I can't grasp much, or at least that's what I've been feeling.

I cannot return, but I preferred the manageable world where nothing strayed from its definition, where everything had its proper category. Ah, the pleasant and determined suburban mindscape where what is true is what is known, where even danger and sadness are explained and expected. But it is all a memory, at least for me.

I still drive to work at 7:45, I take breaks, scan my newsfeed, keep my eyes focused on my laptop’s screen. None of that's changed. But now, after the sea-creature, who knows what might show up at my door? There are rumors of angels I must—mustn’t I?—entertain. Yes or no, the world is no longer tame. Or, more precisely, it never was and I was unaware. All the categories and explanations, a feeble attempt at safety, laughable barriers I created to keep me safe from the unknown. The computer I type on has become an instrument that helps me forget the feeble reach of my mind.

Sleep, particularly, has become unmanageable. I keep dreaming that I'm in a forest and I can only see a few feet ahead of me--all around me are noises. I can't see what or who they're coming from. I spin around, looking. When I wake up my sheets are covered with sweat and my comforter is on the floor. I know how this sounds. I know I seem unwell. And maybe I am. My thoughts are haunted with the possibility that even something that seemed as stable and certain as science could be undone. It is frightening, all of it.

• You’ve got to listen to Ezra Klein’s interview with Ross Douthat. Douthat, a conservative writer for The New York Times, just released Believe—a 21st-century case for why people should believe in God. I haven’t read the book yet, so no endorsement there. But the conversation? Fascinating. Klein, a secular Jew, has recently found himself haunted by an unshakable experience of God. Douthat weaves in aliens, fairies, psychedelics, and neuroscience in. He doesn’t believe in every bit of it, but he is curious and has some thoughts. It’s a wild ride—respectful and deeply human. What stuck out to me was the reference to Barbara Ehrenreich who, while not a believer, has had regular and unexplainable experiences of God. If you’re as interested as I was by this you might want to buy the book—so here it is.

• And hey, if you're in Washington: the Mariners are hot right now. So, it's time to brush up on your Seattle baseball lore so you can pass as a lifelong fan. Start with Dorktown’s brilliant multi-part documentary on the Mariners. It kicks off with the team's origin story—a stadium burned down by a jobless revolutionary. You can’t make this stuff up.

Terrible Beauty is one month old—huzzah. It’s been a gift to hear from old and new friends about the chapters that have meant something to them. If you’ve sent a note, thank you—truly.

If you haven’t picked up a copy yet, I’d be honored if you did. Especially if you’re in a season of uncertainty, or standing at the edge of something new. That’s who I wrote it for.

If you have read it, please consider giving it a review on Goodreads or on Amazon. And, if participated in the last giveaway… your prizes are coming—slowly—but they’re coming.