By Andrea Lingle

And they answered, “John the Baptist. But others say, Elijah, and others, that one of the prophets of old has risen.” 

Luke 9:19

"Respect one another, support one another, bring your gift to the world and receive the gifts of others, and there will be enough for all."

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass, p. 132

And just like that the mystery is dispelled. The question is replaced by an answer. Everything that is is explained by what has been. Nothing is new under the sun. Under the darkness of mystery, we languished, but now we are met by the rising of the dawn of our own understanding. Do you remember the days of old when Elijah walked this land? We were the people, chosen by God, beloved above all. Forgotten are the years of famine, the angry monarchs, the dependence on ravens. The past is remembered with a glow it never had. 

There is a danger in settling on an identity—on a moment of salvation. How eagerly we claim to know, to understand, to own. Do we forget that life is striated into seasons. The seed is sown in a tough capsule built to withstand cold and predators. It must be softened and changed to sprout. Could the seed claim to be the flower? No, but the flower is contained in the seed. Does the flower refute the seed? No, but the seed is, indeed, displaced by the flower. There is a danger in claiming to be a seed. Finally. Fully. One’s seedliness must give way to a sprouting, a pressing up, an unfolding, a dance with the light. The turgidity of the summer must collapse into winter. The return to the soil. The release into the twilight. These are all part of what it means to be a seed, but the seed must first be destroyed.

What do you long for? A walk along a familiar creek, a nap on a sun soaked couch, chubby toddler fingers wrapped around your finger? The regular motions of our lives cannot be the totality of who we are. Perhaps our longings reveal something about the “who” we represent. There is so much going on under the surface of the “I” walking around, buying groceries, chatting about the seasons or the latest shows. Your buttoned up smile and neatly tied shoes cover up the longings and doubts that threaten to erupt like mushrooms into the living room. Please, Dear Jesus, Christ, God, friend, do not ask me who I am. Do not turn your question on me.

My neighbor bags his maple leaves every year. By this time of the year, every crunchy leaf that my daughter and I have been walking through is packed into straining contractor bags. Our walks are silent now. Last year I stole every single one of those bags. Each day I would walk up to his yard, grab two of the bags and drag them back to my yard. Those leaves have now moldered their way down into the soil of my garden. I am planning to start dragging again this week. What is a leaf? A magical producer of sugar from light? A relief from the sun? A delight for six-year-old feet? Nourishment for future seeds?

Yes. Yes. Yes!