Rearranging the Changes

Posted on November 12, 2015 by Doc Arnett

The colors of fall are in full swing in Arkansas City, Kansas. Amidst oak and elm, a few maples splash their bright colors along the streets and in the yards. It’s hard not to like this flush of autumn, especially the variegated accents of sweet gum with its points of the palette. It seems like everywhere you look, there’s some refreshing bit of color.

Yesterday’s winds sure rearranged some of it, though. Those gusts that whipped around town pushed the meter up near the forty-miles-an-hour mark. Branches bent, limbs swayed and even the trunks shuddered a bit. Much of the foliage departed for points unknown, leaving many branches bare by this morning’s early light.

As I walked from the house to the truck, I saw a thick covering of leaves in the eddies of the wind’s swirling currents. All those colors that I’d seen along Summit and across the avenues were now represented in my yard: yellows and tans, greens and browns, reds and oranges in all sorts of shades, shapes and tones.

I know it’s not the same as seeing them in full array along the banks and bluffs. Miles of hardwoods along the hills and bordering the fields is often little short of spectacular. But there is beauty in this, too, this close viewing of individual leaves scattered and sorted and close at hand. In admiring the beauty of the group, we should also treasure the closeness of knowing the individual.

It might be good, too, to learn the art of appreciating the autumn without dreading the coming of winter. In all seasons, there is good, and a time for each.

H. Arnett
11/12/15

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Fire and Nice

Posted on November 9, 2015 by Doc Arnett

As some who have ridden along when I’m driving somewhere will tell you, I have been known to suddenly just pull over and stop on the shoulder of the road. Although there is the possibility of some urgent biological need, most often the precipitating event is a photographic opportunity. Sometimes, I’ll make such a stop even when I don’t have a camera with me. Usually, though, I’ve at least got my cheap little cell phone with its capacity to record facsimiles of a photograph.

Last Friday evening, as Randa and I were headed back up to Doniphan County, we were driving across the river flats northeast of Topeka. A long line of clouds fanned out from the west, streaming from the horizon to directly overhead and beyond us toward the east.

“Wow,” I said to Randa, “If those clouds leave a bit of an opening for the sun, there’s going to be a great sunset here in about twenty-to-thirty minutes.” She looked across wide fields of corn stubble lined by cottonwood and willow along the river, studied the sky for a moment and then nodded her head, “You’re right.”

A bit less than twenty minutes later, we passed through Meriden. A mile east, I looked back in the mirror and then made one of those sudden pullovers. I grabbed the camera, checked the left-side mirror for oncoming traffic and made a quick exit. I stepped up onto the bumper of the Silverado and climbed into the back of the truck, then turned, facing west.

The sun set fire to the lower clouds. Brilliant waves of orange spread across the long waves. Rims of platinum marked inner layers. Dark silhouettes marked the tops of trees fading into the low fields. Incredible tones played throughout the slowly changing shapes. At some points, it seemed as if some raging inferno billowed in slow motion up from the western source of the sun.

Usually, by the time I finally pull over to take pictures of a sunset, it seems the best part has already passed. This time, it kept getting better; colors burned even more brightly and the contrasts became more evident. I sat on the side of the bed, watching, taking more pictures. Praise and exclamation murmured from my heart.

Though it may be nothing to compare with the one that is to come, this world has its moments. And every now and then, I happen to have my eyes open when it comes.

H. Arnett
11/9/15

Try this link to the pictures, then use left/right arrow keys to toggle through: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10207875681200555&set=ms.c.eJxVz8kNAzEMBMGMjB6Kl~%3BJPzNzPmv4WGkNJGNUV2TKIiI9eOQ4plsQjueW0k6af3Ma5lUvKmhv11zDNunUnEupXCjRivRtnGlYzTxZrp9Czk3vHzvyh~%3BQt5dC7p.bps.a.10207875680640541.1073741861.1551640665&type=3&theater

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The Peace of Gratitude

Posted on November 6, 2015 by Doc Arnett

When the last light of day has faded
into quiet darkness,
when all of conversation has ended,
when I lie in silence except for the sound
of my own breathing:

I am grateful for days like this
that come in autumn’s soft calling,
for the smiles of friends and strangers,
for the closeness of this woman beside me,
for work that makes me believe
that I am made for both giving and receiving,
for colleagues who care,
for others who share both burden and blessing.

I have found it good to ease into night
keeping count of all good things
without thought of deserve or earned
but knowing that He who makes the sun to shine
on both the just and the unjust
has granted me far more
than I ever imagined or asked for.

With eyes closed and heart opened,
I give thanks
and smile my way into sleep,
welcoming the rest of the blessed.

H. Arnett
11/6/15

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A Fine Fall

Posted on November 5, 2015 by Doc Arnett

I had begun to wonder whether autumn’s colors
would ever come to Cowley County.
The hardwoods of Doniphan offered their full bounty
two hundred miles north of here at least two weeks ago:
maples gone to orange, yellow, red
and in a few rare cases, purple,
along with some similar fine tones of ash and gum.
The grasses along the roadways and ditchbanks
massed their splotches of deeper colors
in an array that spread for miles.

Here along the southern border,
the only reds I had seen were a few small clusters of sumac,
some cut back to the height of grass
and others the height of a man’s shoulders
should he be careless enough for that measuring.
Dark clusters of berries hung amidst that shroud of crimson.

Yesterday, though, with a southern wind
blowing brown leaves across the campus,
I looked north in my passing across 3rd Street
where concrete changes into brick
and I saw thick mats of yellow and red
scattered in between the rows of greens
where oak and elm still cling
to the memories of warmer days and mild nights.

Sometimes it takes the right season
for something bright to make itself known,
some showing of what was hidden,
gifted by ridding itself of the covering cloak
that used to blend in among all the others
like the leaves of oak and elm.

It ought to be something other than a self-conscious shouting
that lets faith make its sprouting known,
something usually unaware of its own pain and beauty.

H. Arnett
11/5/15

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Opportunity Cost

Posted on November 4, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Along the north side of the building
bordered by an empty lot
on the southeast corner of Summit and Chestnut,
long vines stretch up in vertical lines,
climbing their way either up toward the sun
or opposite the pull of gravity.

I’d like to think that it’s a seeking of greater light
but escaping what drags us down is not a bad choice, either.

Two weeks ago,
struck by the even patterns
and symmetrical shapes,
the colors and textures
of greens and reds and crimson,
the full flush of leaves
shaping long arrows tapering toward the top,
I thought I should stop and take a picture,
something to send to others
who are not near to here
but share a sense of beauty
and a love for calm things.

But I waited
for a more convenient moment,
for a time of perfect light
and no cars in the parking lot
and no need for me to be somewhere else
sooner rather than later.

Today,
half of the leaves are gone,
taken by the season and its good reasons
and leaving me standing here
in the half-light of dawn,
knowing that it’s my own damn fault,
that I could have caught a near-perfect picture
a dozen different times.

It might be beautiful again next year
but it will never again be what it was.

H. Arnett
11/4/15

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Old Into New

Posted on October 27, 2015 by Doc Arnett

The sky is just the sort of blue you’d expect on a clear October day in northeast Kansas. The leaves on the trees are a mix of yellows and tans, greens and orange with a bit of red scattered around on some of the maples. A bit warmer would be okay but it’s still a fine day to be outdoors. A fine day to share a family tradition.

As far back in my youth as I can remember, making cider in western Kentucky was a fall tradition. Paul and I cranked the mill together near the old apple tree in our back yard when we were growing up in Todd County. Dad and I cranked out several gallons in Kelvie Nicholson’s orchard in northern Graves County when I was in high school. Three years ago, four of my sons and I rendezvoused in Calloway County for a big family day.

For Sam, my second oldest, this is his first time, which is a little ironic given that it was this same mill that scarred his finger more than thirty years ago. When he was about four years old, he was playing in the basement with the cider mill. Curiosity about the big metal gears led to several stitches in the inquiring finger. Today, though, the scar is healed, the apples are ripe and his friend, Doug, is here from Florida.

So, we make cider.

Twenty minutes in the orchard finds a few hundred pounds of apple in the back of the truck. Doug asks how many apples it takes to make a liter of cider. A bushel will usually yield three to four gallons so I do a little metric conversion and guess that one bucket of apples will give us a liter. The three of us continue filling up buckets and dumping them into the big trash can in the back of the truck. Owing less to experience and more to my low standards for cider apples, I tend to fill my bucket faster than Sam and Doug.

When it comes to turning the crank on the old mill, though, I can’t keep up with these two. Mostly, I do the other things that accompany milling apples: rinsing, disinfecting and rinsing the apples, pouring up the juice, offering sage advice, etc. When the first batch is done, I dip a paper cup into the little plastic vat and we share sips. “That’s really good,” Doug says appreciatively and we concur.

In less than two hours, we make nearly fifteen gallons of cider. Most of it goes into the big plastic canister for the hard cider I enjoy so much. The rest is kept for fresh juice. All of it becomes part of this good day. After all the cleaning up is done, we sit in the wind and sun, sipping last year’s work.

It may be that the best part of a family tradition is this blending of ancient ritual with fresh friendship. This passing on of ancient art and science brings a blending of being part of something larger than ourselves, a continuing of something good and nourishing.

When we work together and look forward to sharing the fruits of our labor, it somehow seems less like labor.

H. Arnett
10/27/15

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Quiet Waters

Posted on October 26, 2015 by Doc Arnett

On the last Sunday of October,
the last fire of a setting sun
burns a hole through the top of the ridge
running north by northeast,
a red blaze flaming through the prairie grass.

As we cut through the first pass
south of Emporia,
where the Flint Hills rise
in a long grade
nearly as far as the eye can see,
Randa tells me to look at the moon.

It is already high in the southeastern sky,
a full platinum circle hovering in the pale blue
of an almost endless sky.
Below, toward where Missouri teases Oklahoma,
there is a pastel pink reflection
just before the base goes to a darker blue,
all caught in the low angle view
of a small pond.

A few miles before El Dorado,
with all of sun gone from the sky,
we pass by a small lake off to the north,
its polished surface
at the end of a rare windless day
an unbroken reflection of deep blue.

At some point,
with all of the rippling stirrings of Self
completely quieted in me,
I hope to become empty enough
that all anyone can see
is a reflection of the Light that lives in me.

H. Arnett
10/26/15

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Community College

Posted on October 23, 2015 by Doc Arnett

I talked recently with a colleague of mine who plays a similar role at another community college in the state. Among her duties, like mine, is dealing with student requests for permission to take finals early. It seems pretty typical that the families of students who live far away from campus tend to buy plane tickets without first consulting the academic schedule. It seems pretty nervy of them to commit such blasphemous acts but it does happen. Tickets are bought, someone eventually realizes, “Oops, that’s a week or two before finals are over” and then they want someone else to fix their mistake without any cost or penalty. You know, kind of how we want God to straighten out the messes we so carefully create.

Anyway, Ellen told me, “I had a student bring a petition for Early Finals to my office. Our reasons are very clear: military service, school function, life-changing event or what-have-you. His form stated, ‘I can save two hundred dollars on my ticket.’

“Naturally, I gave it a good two seconds of thought and then rejected it.” I nodded my head in agreement, figuring that was maybe a bit more thought than I would have given it. Then, Ellen moved to the rest of the story.

“Two days later, he comes in to see me about his request. I invited him in and talked to him. He’s from Puerto Rico, totally away from his family, which includes a brother who is five years older. I explained to him that I’d checked and found out he could get his round trip tickets for about a hundred-and-sixty dollars more and that I would not approve his request.”

Here, Ellen paused and her expression changed, became less matter-of-fact. Her voice softened, too. “There was something that just didn’t feel right to me.”

“You mean about him?” I asked.

“No, about my decision. So… I started talking to him, asking him about his family. I asked if he missed them and that’s when he tilted his head down. He sat there like that for several seconds. When he looked back up at me, his eyes were red; he was crying.

“I gave him a moment. Then I asked what led him to come so far away from his home in Puerto Rico to Kansas.”

“He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and then said, ‘I came to play baseball.’ Then I asked him how that was going. “ It was probably my imagination but I thought Ellen’s eyes misted over a bit as she related his answer, ‘I got cut from the team.’”

“Wow,” I said quietly, shaking my head and feeling a lump about the size of a baseball in my throat. “That had to cut pretty deep… So what did you do?”

She smiled and said, “I signed the dang form. Any eighteen-year-old who leaves his family and friends three thousand miles away to come to Kansas to play baseball and gets cut from the team has endured a life-changing event.”

I smiled and Ellen grinned. Then she added an even better ending, “I know that my teachers are compassionate enough that they won’t mind letting a heart-broken student take a test a week early so he can get back to the love and comfort of his family. My students and I are lucky to have teachers like this.”

“Yes, you are.”

A college with teachers like that is a college that will be a blessing to a community that extends way beyond its service area.

H. Arnett
10/23/15

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Prayers Rising with the Dawn

Posted on October 22, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Soft colors mingle among the clouds
in the southeastern sky this morning.
There is some hint of rain
in the forming of darker shapes
wedging behind the low line
finding its way toward Missouri.

The silhouettes of trees and buildings
mark the filling between the horizon
and drifting clouds.

It may be that storms will come
later in the day.
It may be that rain will bring
some drenching to eager soil,
a quenching of sorts for the time being.

For now, though,
it is calm and still
as subtle tones of red and pink
spread among the shapes,
the sky a mingling of hues
as varied as choices
in a day already begun
before the rising of the sun.

On my way to work,
I marvel at the thousand ways
a day can begin,
pray for grace and wisdom
to send a blessing to those around me.

H. Arnett
10/22/15

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A Quiet Blessing

Posted on October 21, 2015 by Doc Arnett

I suppose that we need, from time to time, some sort of sublime moment. Something transcendent, beyond the ordinary. Something to remind us that not all of life is mundane. There’s also a certain value in those especially invigorating experiences. We don’t have to be adrenaline junkies to appreciate the spike and spur in the feel good charge of something that is exciting to us. I’ve never gone hang-gliding, bungee jumping or free-styled up the side of a vertical rock race overhanging a thousand-foot cliff. But I do enjoy the slight rush of working my way up the side of a steep bank and standing on its edge with the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.

Great experiences are… well… great!

We also need those moments of quiet reflection. Time to sit on a flat boulder at the edge of a calm lake and study the shapes of trees silhouetted against a dusky sky. Time to study the reflections of autumn sumac reflected in the face of the water. Time to consider that we are quite small in the scale of the universe yet intimately known and loved by its Designer. Time to think and time to not think. Time to be in the moment, appreciate the moment, even treasure it without grasping on to it so tightly that we lose it before it even passes.

We need times of peace and calm and quietness. In fact, our need for them is so great that we should not wait and hope they come to us. We must seek them out, absorb their grace and let them soothe our spirits and anoint our hearts. In those moments and in the wellspring they provide, we can become fountains of peace that bless the lives of others.

Peace passed on, peace shared, peace treasured. May this be yours today and may you share its blessing tomorrow in the way you treat others.

H. Arnett
10/21/15

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