Going the Distance, Fifteen Minutes at a Time

 “…We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness…We do earnestly repent, And are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; The remembrance of them is grievous unto us; The burden of them is intolerable.”  Book of Common Prayer, 1928 edition

“I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway.”  Romans 7:19 (The Message)

I don’t know what it says about me and my misdoings, but the undone gets to me every time.  Not that the other side of the slate is clean---I might never be an inmate at Shawshank but I’ve still got a rap sheet known by the Almighty---but it’s what I’ve failed to do that’s likely to come to mind when the hour is late and the house is still and I can’t sleep.  The comfort I didn’t offer, the patience I didn’t show, the promise I didn’t keep. 

The stories I didn’t write.

I thought about inviting you, dear reader, to share my sackcloth and ashes.  To ask you if there is something you feel called to do, that you feel you were born to do, that is going undone, day after day.  But I realized I was trying to ease my own guilt by implying yours, so I’ll keep this discussion confined to my shortcomings.

Maybe guilt isn’t the best word to use here.  I resolved to put guilt and regret aside in my first column of 2014, “My Undo List.”  I’ve finally learned that once I’ve acknowledged a mistake, asked for forgiveness and tried to set things right I should let go and move on.  I’m working on that.  But keeping that boogeyman at bay doesn’t let me off the hook.   I still have to face the good I don’t do.

Let’s cut to the chase.  I should write but I don’t.   I’ve justified my inaction by saying I don’t know what to write, but recently I had an epiphany:  Ideas don’t lead to writing.  Writing leads to ideas.

I recalled my writing journey, from the creative writing assignments in college to my first job as a very junior reporter for our local newspaper to the columns and reports written for volunteer groups to letters to the editor to the work you’ve read on this blog.  In most of those cases I sat down and wrote because I had to, whether because of a class requirement, a commitment I had to honor, or an issue about which I felt strongly.  Sentences sidled up to me, slowly and surely, as I pressed one key after another.

This realization was confirmed by no less than the great writer of westerns Louis L’Amour:  “Start writing, no matter what.  The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”  Teacher, children’s book author and blogger Martin Tiller posted that quote on Facebook recently.  I became acquainted with Martin through his parents, friends of mine, and I’ve had the pleasure of proofreading a couple of his books.  (Martin’s stories about Kevin, a boy with a big imagination, can be found on Amazon.com.I recommend them highly.)

In the December 26, 2013 edition of his blog, “Digital Tiller: The 21^st Century Is No Longer the Future,” (http://martintiller.com) Martin described how he manages to fit writing into his life.   He introduced me to the power of 15 minutes a day:

During a normal day I teach 5th grade.  That alone is enough.  Lesson plans, meetings, parent conferences, grading.  You know, teaching.
Then there is family time.  I have a two year old in the house.  I want to spend as much time as possible with her during this time.  So I do.
But if I set a goal of 15 minutes a day I can get stuff done.  Not blazing fast.  But stuff gets done.  And that’s the goal.  Get stuff done.

Martin went on to say that he can write about 250 words in 15 minutes and he often writes for longer than that.   But 15 minutes is his goal and now I’m claiming it as mine.

I had always believed that being a “real” writer meant getting up at dawn and writing for two hours before work every day.  I figured if I couldn’t rev myself up for that level of commitment I might as well do nothing.  At least that was my excuse, silly as it was.  

But Martin’s essay has given me an attainable goal and I’m reaching it, on most days anyway.  My writing speed is glacial at this point, but I’m writing.

Back in my late teens and early twenties I wasn’t sure if I’d win a Pulitzer Prize for journalism, poetry or fiction, but I was certain I’d do something great.

Now I’m simply trying to do good.  And that’s enough.

Lost at Sea

I saw Noah today and I know legions are waiting for my take on this film.  Maybe not legions, but at least a dozen.  Okay, maybe two friends who aren’t wrapped up in the season premiere of “Game of Thrones” but still don’t want to do anything productive.  So, here you go…

SPOILER ALERT!  You don’t need one if you’ve read the story of Noah and his ark in the Bible.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  The movie has a guy and his family, a big boat designed to haul animals, and a flood that wipes the planet clean.  The resemblance to the Old Testament account ends there.

I learned the following from the two hours and 18 minutes I spent with Russell Crowe and company:

·         The SyFy Channel took the idea for that classic film Rock Monster from the Bible.  (Haven’t seen Rock Monster?  You obviously don’t spend enough Saturday nights at home.)  It turns out pre-Flood Earth played host to creatures that looked like chunks of broken concrete stuck together.  They’re pretty grumpy and would be no fun at a picnic.

·           People back then had a really cool energy source, glowing rocks (no relation to the aforementioned creatures) called zophar.  Strike them and they glow and burn and can be used to create a Molotov cocktail in a pinch.  Noah uses several for that purpose when he has to destroy the raft belonging to his eldest son and pregnant daughter-in-law who have to escape the ark because Noah has sworn to kill their child if it’s a girl because he believes God wants all humanity to be exterminated and a girl could become a mother.  (Are you with me so far?)  After the raft burns Jack Bauer, Chuck Norris, Moses and St. Paul sidle up to the ark on an inflatable boat, packing AK-47s, bandoliers of extra ammo and a party-size bag of Cheetos.  They tie up Noah with a sleeping boa constrictor and proceed to flirt with Mrs. Noah, who looks like Jennifer Connelly.

Alright, nothing I said after “Are you with me so far?” was in the movie.  But it should have been.

·         Now I know why there are no unicorns.  I suspect they were eaten by a stowaway named Tubal-Cain, a greasy looking refugee from the Mad Max movies.  Come to think of it, I’ve never been so close to becoming a vegetarian as I was while watching Noah.  Those characters had no table manners whatsoever, not to mention cooking skills.
 

·         The Genesis account does tell us that Noah commemorated his arrival on dry land by getting drunk and “nekkid.”  (In South Carolina, the land of my raising, “nekkid” refers to nudity that’s up to no good.)  However, the Bible does not mention that Noah looked like Nick Nolte in his DUI arrest photo, only worse.  Want to dissuade your teenagers from drinking?  Make them watch Noah downing gallons of wine.  I don’t think a drunken grizzly would look as sloppy.

We never hear from God directly in this movie, but I like to think it gave Him a few laughs.  When you’re faced with the problems of billions 24/7 you deserve some comic relief.  I can hear Him saying:

“Oh My Me, it’s the Rock Monster!”

 

Full Circle

I can’t remember to whom the shoe belonged.

The white ankle boot, size 4E, presides over my dresser.   The sole has a few miles (or yards) on it but is in passable condition.  When I study the leather upper I see the path of a shoe polish bottle’s foam tip---I can still picture Mr. Pettit carefully erasing days of wear, the shoe perched on the tips of his fingers.    “Stride Rite” is barely visible on the insole, almost worn away by a small perpetual motion machine. 

Even the story of how this piece of footwear came to rest on my dresser is unclear to me now.  I recall coming across it as I sorted through our sons’ things, probably after a move.  We moved ten times during Mr. Pettit’s Air Force career and each new home seemed to demand sorting and organizing, giving away and throwing out.   

Maybe I tossed the little boot’s companion or perhaps it was lost in an earlier move.  All I can remember is a sudden impulse to set apart this bit of my boys’ ancient history.  And so it sits in a place of honor, next to the jewelry box my husband bought during a deployment in England and the comb and mirror Daddy gave me after a business trip to Puerto Rico.  It’s my life told by a succession of things:  Daughter to wife to mother. 

It used to bother me that I didn’t know if the shoe belonged to Older or Younger Son.  But now I’m glad its ownership is uncertain, for it represents all the steps taken by my little boys.  Like that moment when crawling and standing aren’t good enough and our round-faced child resembles Frankenstein’s Creature, fresh off the scientist’s operating table:  Foot up, wait for it, wait for it, foot down.  The foot is down and he is still up!  Let’s see if he can do it again:  Other foot is up, wait, yes, that foot is on the floor!  Quick, write it on the baby calendar:  First steps. 

Of course, we soon learned that a baby on the move is akin to a monkey on the loose.  No object is uninteresting to a young human and the more dangerous the better.  Mr. Pettit and I became a Secret Service detail of two, sweeping each new location for possible threats.  Brick hearth and a rectangular coffee table at nine o’clock.  Open electrical outlet at your six.  Uh-oh, check out the crystal vase on the end table.  We‘ve got a situation here…
 

Regrets sneak up and clobber me occasionally, but I don’t spend much time looking over my shoulder.  We have photo albums (remember them?) lined up on our bookshelves, filled with pictures of each son’s first moments:  First bath, first Christmas, first haircut, first day of kindergarten.  I’m glad we have these illustrated histories, but I’ve learned that if I linger with these shadows I start to pine for my little boys, and they are long gone. 

I’m floating down a river, carried forward by the current.  Since I can’t reverse course I might as well enjoy the scenery around me.   I put the little shoe back in its usual spot atop a craft-stick box.   I’m grateful for the little boy who wore it (whether it was Older or Younger Son) and for the good man who took his place.  I’m grateful for the moments represented by the shoe, the jewelry box and the comb and mirror. 

And I'm grateful for the gift of hope, as I wonder what will be added to my dresser display in the months and years to come.  For this summer I’ll take on a new role:  Grandmother.

Satisfaction guaranteed...

Let the snow come, the flakes slipping from the sky as I sleep.  I shall shovel and I shall sing.

Spring and summer in the garden are about hope and wishes.  I bury the roots of tender plants in rich soil, give them the recommended allowance of water and sun and wait.

Sorry, these seats are taken...

Sometimes I am rewarded with glossy foliage and bountiful blooms.  Other times I’m left with yellow leaves and skeletal bushes.  Friends talk about canning tomatoes and making salsa.  I dream of slicing one beautiful red fruit for my ham sandwich.

But snow never disappoints.  The snow blower
can't reach every spot so I go forth with my trio of shovels:  The pusher, the scooper, and the scraper.  And I know I will return to the house victorious.

Tuck in the ear buds, scroll to the “Classical” playlist, hit “Shuffle,” and slip the iPod into my jacket pocket.  “Moonlight Sonata”:  Scoop, lift (always with the legs), toss.  “Fur Elise”:  Scoop, lift, toss.  Pachelbel’s “Canon in D”:  Scoop, lift, toss. 

I’ve cleared a path around the mailbox and newspaper holders, scraped lingering ice on the driveway and uncovered the edges of the sidewalk when I stop to rest on our front steps.  I decide I’ve had enough “adagio” and need an infusion of music from within the last hundred years.  Scroll to “Songs,” hit “Shuffle,” and wait to see what the machine will choose for me.

“I Want You Back” by The Jackson 5 begins, and I scoop, lift, and toss to the beat of young Michael’s vocals.  “Lundu” by The Chieftains reminds me that St. Patrick’s Day is on the way and that I wish I could step dance.   The Pussycat Dolls invite me to “Sway”---I like Dean Martin’s version better, but that might be my own cattiness speaking.

Time for lunch.  There’s a bit more clearing to do, but I know I’ll finish my task before day’s end.  Snow never disappoints.  The flakes fall and wait for us to push them aside.

Spring is coming.  And then I will wait.  And hope. 

Just chillin'

Dear Citizens of Long Beach, California,

In a recent visit to the U.S. News and World Report website I noticed that your fair city (well, actually your entire state) topped a list of 10 retirement locations with year-round nice weather.

How can you stand it?

When I checked the Weather Channel website today our corner of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley came in at 32 degrees while y’all were sitting at a balmy 60.  Call me a season-ist, but that’s just not right.  Sixty degrees Fahrenheit belongs in March or April, not January.

Don’t get me wrong.  You have a lovely city.  The Queen Mary is a classic beauty and even your new airport terminal is a pleasant place to pass the time.  Who can complain about an open-air waiting area, complete with palm trees swaying in the warm breeze?

It must be paradise, except it’s not.  Not for me, anyway.

I don’t wear the same clothes every day.  I’ll never get a tattoo because I don’t want to be stuck with a permanent accessory.  Sometimes I’ll switch back and forth between two books because neither can hold my attention.

I want to use all 64 crayons in the box. 

Living in a place with four seasons means the weather never wears out its welcome.   I’ve lived in Louisiana where summer drags out from April to October and in North Dakota where winter lingers from October to May.  In our little part of the Commonwealth each season has the good manners to move on right before you decide you’re tired of it.  Fall, in fact, always departs before I’m ready to say goodbye.

Another thing---what do you talk about when the weather’s perfect all the time?  Earlier this week something called the polar vortex rode into town, threw us all into a walk-in freezer and slammed the door.  And as we shivered together we swapped stories with people in the check-out line and at work and at church.  “Cold enough for you?”  “Did your power go out?”  “I hear it’s going to warm up to 30 tomorrow---I guess I'll wear shorts."

We squeeze every drop of excitement out of every weather event, especially those of the winter variety.  We watched Mr. Vortex approach with dreadful glee, wrapped ourselves up in fleece and pulled on our mittens when he arrived, and discussed his visit extensively after he returned to the North Pole.  What do you get excited about?  "Harriet, I hear the temperature’s gonna drop to 50 tonight---I better go buy some more bread and milk.”  I suppose if I lived in California I’d complain about the taxes, but that same old song would wear thin fast.

I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings.  Many would consider your temperate climate ideal and I’m sure I’ll visit your city again.
 

But I wouldn’t want to live there.

Sincerely,
Rita Pettit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Undo List

 

Here comes Baby New Year, dragging a sack full of self-improvement behind him.  Lose weight!  Exercise!  Learn a new language!  Organize your life!  Marie Osmond, the Rosetta Stone people, and Oprah Winfrey will show us the way.

And so I give in to the urge to resolve.  The notion of reinvention is too alluring, like an untouched snow bank.  It’s easy to replace my Christmas “to do” list with a list for building a better Rita.

List, shmist.  Enough with the addition.  I’m moving on to subtraction.

I’m not giving up.  I’m letting go. 

I still see each new year, each new day, as a repository of possibilities.  As 2014 approaches I wonder what experiences it will hold.  But I don’t plan to greet midnight with a long “to do” list designed to fix me once and for all.

Instead, I resolve to release a few things.  I’m dropping dreams that suited an 18-year-old but don’t fit the person I’ve become---some visions are built to last while others are as transient as leisure suits.   I’ll also show those evil Wonder Twins, Guilt and Regret, the door.  That one will definitely require divine assistance.  I don’t want to become impervious to the convicting power of Guilt, but I’m tired of carrying it without cause.   As for Regret, he’s a nasty little fellow who promises to keep his distance only if I manage to live an error-free life, and that’s not likely.  Keeping him at bay will require daily doses of grace.

My archenemy, Perfectionism, will not go gently into the night.  But I’m learning---slowly---that the secret to winning that battle lies in the small victories.  A mug in my kitchen is emblazoned with this saying:  “Strive for excellence, not perfection.”  I keep that little motto in mind as I write.  Only One is perfect and He doesn’t expect me to be.  He just asks me to follow His lead and be the person He had in mind before I was born.

Would you like to travel with less baggage through 2014?  Don’t give up.  Just let go.

Happy New Year!

  

 

 

 

 

 

       

My Christmas Soundtrack

Silent night?  No, thank you.  No disrespect to Mr. Mohr and Mr. Gruber and their carol, although it’s not my favorite---I always strain to hit the high notes in the “sleep in heavenly peace” part.  I think Christmas should be anything but silent; it should be filled from bottom to top with music.

I share my father’s love of all things Christmas: The holy and the worldly, the Nativity and the tinsel.  It’s not surprising that the grief I felt at his passing started to heal in earnest at a Christmas Eve service three months later.  The music spoke directly to my heart in a way no words could, and provided complete assurance that Daddy was just fine.

I've collected Christmas songs and carols for as long as I can remember.  I sang them to my sleepless babies and I sang them to my preschoolers as I pushed them on swings.  I still sing them softly to myself as I shop.

I can’t pin down which tune is my favorite, but I can tell you which ones comprise my Christmas soundtrack.  Here goes:

“Up on the Housetop”:  Okay, so it’s nothing fancy, but this song was always part of the annual Christmas Eve show my older sister and I put on for our parents.  Their anniversary was December 24 and our performance was our gift to them.  My sister is almost eight years older than I, but she treated me like a partner in this annual production.  I wish I could remember more of the details of our shows but I can picture the programs we wrote and decorated, the muted light of our living room, and Mama and Daddy smiling at us from their seats on the sofa.  (And don’t forget to snap your fingers at the “Click, click, click” line.) 

“Un Flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle!” “O Tannenbaum,” and “Adeste Fideles”:  These carols carry memories of my time at the Episcopal school I started attending in sixth grade.  I found the Latin version of “O Come, All Ye Faithful" in a hymnal shortly after I started Latin classes and I considered myself quite the scholar when I memorized it.  Mr. Olechovsky, my high school French teacher, taught us “Un Flambeau” and the original German version of “Oh Christmas Tree” although I can’t remember why.  I don’t believe we sang it in a school program.  There didn’t have to be a reason; Mr. O was excited about teaching and we wound up excited about learning.

“Here Comes Santa Claus” (the Gene Autry version, of course):  I heard this song on the radio as a newlywed.  Mr. Pettit and I were driving in our new hometown one night when Mr. Autry came on the radio.  This was long before we owned a library of Christmas music, so we had to depend on the gentle mercies of radio programmers.  Hearing the opening notes was akin to receiving an unexpected gift. I don’t know why this moment is engraved in my memory, but I can recall the warmth of that darkened cocoon and listening to a verse about how Santa knows we’re all God’s children and that makes everything right.

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas”:  After Mr. Pettit entered the Air Force most of our Christmases were spent far away from our families in South Carolina.  We created our own rituals with our sons, but this song still makes me cry.  “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.”    

“Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” as performed by Mannheim Steamroller:  I became acquainted with Mannheim Steamroller when we lived outside Omaha, Nebraska.  I put the group’s “A Fresh Aire Christmas” cassette in my car’s player and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” came up first.  The energy of their rendition surged through me and I felt all was right with the world.

“December” by George Winston and “Holiday Songs and Lullabies” by Shawn Colvin:  I don’t have specific moments tied to these two albums, but they’re too good not to mention.  Listen to either one and your blood pressure will drop by at least ten points.  Bliss.

As I skid from task to task during the Christmas season it’s hard to see beyond my “to do” list and pay attention to the moments flying past.  Familiar songs help me stop and get my bearings.  What is on your Christmas soundtrack?  Which songs hold special meaning for you?

Merry Christmas!