Holly Street

Holly Street

“When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled ordinary men, they were astonished, and they took note that these men had been with Jesus.”—Acts 4:13.

Since coming to Arkansas in 1976, we have often believed that many talented, well-known Arkansans grew up in this small Delta town of Helena on the Mississippi River between Memphis and Vicksburg. Holly Street, by Steve Petkoff, is a book packed with stories about Steve’s life as a young boy growing up in Helena, Arkansas, in the 1940s and 1950s. Although Steve reveals his humble beginnings, starting work at age four, he compares past times with today’s modernism, wealth, and self-taught lessons acquired from the school of hard knocks.

His curious mind and common-sense approach to life were grounded in the love his parents, family, and friends passed on to him through how they lived, displaying mercy, care, and respect for others. Not to say that he did not exhibit his share of mischievous deeds and reckless boyhood adventures. He was far from perfect, but learned from the antics and injuries he caused to others.

One reviewer described Holly Street as a journey “back to the days when kids freely roamed the streets of their hometowns, went to the Saturday matinee at the local theater, and camped out in tents with their friends.”

All was not idyllic. While witnessing many adult actions and situations prematurely, Steve quickly picked up life’s ethical values as a youngster.  Finding dead bodies in his yard and neighborhood while witnessing incest, drunks, and knife fights sped up his growth.

 The author writes that prayer, regular church attendance, and respect for people of all races molded him into the man God intended for him to become.

         Like Peter and John 2,000 years ago, God has always abided with commonplace men and women throughout history to carry the message of love and resurrection. From Steve, we learn why and how many well-known and not-so-known Arkansans received this message of love and caring for their neighbors in this unique Mississippi Delta town. Holly Street tells us this is true, because the proceeds from Steve’s book go back to his community of Helena Phillips County!

Joanna joannaseibert.com https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Remembering the Pandemic Path

 Guest Writer: Jennifer Horne

Walking a Pandemic Path

“What we are looking for on earth and in earth and in our lives is the process that can unlock for us the mystery of meaningfulness in our daily lives. … Truly the last place it would ever occur to most of us to find the sacred would be in the commonplace of our everyday lives and all about us in nature and simple things.”—Alice O. Howell in The Dove in the Stone: Finding the Sacred in the Commonplace.

Path Labyrinth

In March during the pandemic, we listened to the endless honking of Canadian geese on the lake we live by, the sounds reminding me, in my fear and helplessness, of slowed-down ululations of grief. Sometime in April, when I could no longer stand to watch the images of COVID victims on the nightly news, I began doing tai chi in my study between 5:30 and 6, while my husband watched CBS. I’d been doing tai chi a couple of times a week for the last seventeen years, after taking a class from James Martin, a kind, elegant Vietnam veteran who had learned the practice to soften the demons he’d brought home with him from war. James died fifteen years ago, and as I followed the path of the twenty-four poses, beginning, going through the sequence, returning to where I started, I felt grateful for the legacy he left, how he taught us to “take a little journey,” breathe, and let our minds rest as our bodies moved. 

In fall, as darkness closed in and the days grew short and cold, I felt the need for some kind of outdoor movement, something brief but restorative, somewhere close by. Our house is nestled in woods, and I had been wanting to make a labyrinth but didn’t have the right spot for one. Instead, I made an oval meditation path in the woods off to the side of the house, finding, raking, and marking its circumference, then placing whimsical items along the way, all related to birds: an old birdhouse, in which I placed a bright orange plastic egg, a birdcage with no bottom, a piece of driftwood shaped like a heron’s head. My favorite part is the approximately 2-x-2-foot nest of twigs I made at one turning in the path. As I walked, these things reminded me of how we were “nesting” at home but would be able to “fly farther afield” someday, and the shape of that simple path reminded me that life happens in cycles and circles as well as linear time.

Whenever my mind got too busy with pandemic thoughts, I loved going out and walking for as long as I needed to while I looked at branches, sky, and ground, so that my inner space came to resemble the outer calm and natural changes I was observing.

Staying home to stay safe from the virus, we weren’t going anywhere, and it felt constraining, but on my path, even though I walked in circles, it felt like I was going somewhere—somewhere deeper, more expansive, connected to a greater being, to an out-of-timeliness beyond the current fraught moment.

On the last day of March, I went out to the path after the rain stopped. The woods are greening at time-lapse speed, and the path is sprouting life: wild iris I’d never noticed before, and also the first shoots of the poison ivy that covers the woods in summer. Soon there will be ticks and chiggers and the occasional snake as well.

It’s time to leave the path until next fall, another cycle.

As I do my evening tai chi, repeating the phrase “this day, this light, this moment, this breath,” whenever I need to re-center myself, I move toward and then away from the window to the woods. I can’t see the path now, but I know it’s there. I imagine, in times to come, it might remind me that even when I’m stuck, I still can find ways to move forward, that in walking my own small path, something good can happen.

path welcome

Jennifer Horne

Poet Laureate of Alabama

Recent book:

 Dodie Walton Horne in Root & Plant & Bloom: Poems by Dodie Walton Horne edited by Jennifer Horne and Mary Horne.

Since this writing in 2021, Jennifer in 2024 has now published Odyssey of a Wandering Mind: The Strange Tale of Sara Mayfield.

Joanna Seibert joannaseibert.com

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Earth Day again

Earth Day Again

“For in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible.”—Colossians 1:16a.

Daughters of the King Western Missouri

The verse from Colossians is an ancient Christian hymn describing who Christ is. I also see it as a reminder to look for the Christ in ourselves and others moment by moment. I know how difficult this is. Sometimes, the Christ is so visible—and sometimes invisible.

In the Thornton Wilder play Our Town, I think of Emily, who is allowed to return to earth for one day to Grover’s Corners after her young, untimely death at age twenty-six. She chooses her twelfth birthday and soon returns to her grave—when she can no longer bear watching as the people she loves barely interact with each other. They seem unable to appreciate the joy and wonder of each new day together, and fail to see the Christ in each other.

I am reminded of a past Earth Day when I listened to music about the earth, such as Beethoven’s Sixth Pastoral Symphony, as we traveled from a reunion in Virginia to the Gulf Coast. Hearing this symphony immediately reminds me of our four years in Iowa City. The music was the background for a visual production of the Iowa outdoors called Iowa, A Place to Grow, a reminder to bloom where we were planted and appreciate the beauty of the earth and the people of that state.

I remember the first Earth Day in 1970. It was the day my husband of six months left for Vietnam for a year. I was pregnant with our first child and felt sorry for myself. I spent the day watching the Earth Day celebration on our small black and white television and stripping the wax off our kitchen floor. I knew I had to transform the energy generated by Robert’s leaving into something useful. I wish I could write here that I planted trees, but my kitchen floor was as far as I got.

I also remember one Earth Day trip when we drove through a gentle rain. The car radio played American composer Alan Hovhaness’s tribute to a beloved tree on his uncle’s farm struck by lightning, “Under the Ancient Maple Tree.”

I wish I could say I participated in some extraordinary events to care for and thank our earth, especially its trees, on the other fifty-four Earth Days since that first one. Still, I honestly cannot remember another Earth Day. The best I could do that day was enjoy the ride, give thanks for the rain, and be grateful for the bountiful green trees keeping us alive along Interstate 85.

I think of my father, a forester who led many hundreds of expeditions to plant pine seedlings. I remember on trips how he often pointed out the tall, grown trees he had planted. Now, many years later, I thank him for his plantings. I know he would be proud of our daughter, Joanna. She also has a master’s degree in forestry, taught wilderness classes at the University of Montana, and is a masterful outdoors lover.

I have learned from my father and daughter that our environment, the outdoors, and especially trees keep us grounded in the present moment. It is such a present moment that I think Emily in Our Town is talking about, where we learn to appreciate each precious gift of time, especially time with those we love. My experience is that I live most consciously in the present moment when I am outdoors, see the trees and plants, and realize that there is something more significant going on than the past and future with which I am so preoccupied.

Last Earth Day, we drove through northwest Arkansas and western Missouri to meet with over fifty Daughters of the King of the Diocese of Western Missouri. The trees, especially the cedars, the rolling hills, creeks, and bridges, were stunning, as were these extraordinary women. We talked a lot about living in the present. That day, we actually experienced it as well.

C. S. Lewis and so many others, and now Emily, all remind us that the present moment—not the past or the future—is where we meet and recognize God in ourselves, each other, and nature. This is one of the best ways to know the Creator, the God of Love.

My hope is that if we can live as much as possible in the present moment, savor it, and let love be our guide, we may have a chance of coming out of the pandemic and social and waring unrest better than we were before.

Our Town Emily

Joanna. Joannaseibert.com https://www.joannaseibert.com/