One Hour
I am on mental tiptoes reaching high up top into the attic of my memory. When did I first understand the concept of an hour? For a child, that 60 seconds morphing into one minute and the 60 minutes pushing the hands clockwise takes a frustratingly long, long time. I've plucked the correct memory. My first understanding of one hour as a measurement of time was the nursery school nap.The nursery school teacher had a large mole just above her lip and a few of those post menopausal stray hairs sprouting from her chin. Her tightly wound salt and pepper curls smelled like a chemical perm. I remember her soft soled shoes squeaking against linoleum floor tiles, her wide girth and the sound of nylon stockings rubbing together as she walked past rows of small children. "Close your eyes. Close your eyes." I hated nap time, hated having to keep my eyes closed and hated waiting for that hour to end.
Fast forward fifty years and the hours race by like horses at Santa Anita, their hooves kicking up dusty memories, never finished to do lists and pounding reminders that the time between milestones and holidays grows shorter and shorter. Nine days out from Christmas and that means it will be here tomorrow. And just moments beyond that a new year starts.
A new year and time to stop counting hours and start to make the hours count.
In one hour I can smile at the cranky butcher at the European deli in our neighboring town and when he brings back my two filets, precisely cut at one and half inch thickness, he will smile back. I can walk down our little main street and grab the door for the mom with the baby girl in a stroller, bags of purchases and an unruly blonde boy intent on going in the exact opposite direction of his exhausted parent. I can see the thank you in her eyes.
I can wait in a checkout line and when the shopper in front of me has picked the only sweater in the entire store without a price tag and then opts to pay with a check rather than a debit card I can wave off the checker's apology and say "No problem. I'm in no hurry." I can see her relief that I don't complain.
I can sit on one of the benches that line our street and watch the parade of neighbors as they stroll and rush from home to wherever and I can give thanks for the peaceful diversity of my neighborhood.
That's one hour spent making a conscious effort to, quite simply, do good. That's one hour in my microscopic corner of this big world. The hours will not slow down. They will pass faster and faster and faster the older we get and it's up to us to grab them and make them count.
For some, the hours will end abruptly.
Last week our country was rocked by another tragedy. Innocents killed and innocence stolen. Heroes slaughtered. Parents unaware that their last hour with their children was really their last. Millions of hours spent tweeting, Facebooking, social networking, arguing and commiserating about gun laws, mental health, the whys, the hows and the what ifs and it's not doing anyone a bit of good.
Emilie Parker was just 6 years old when she was killed last week. Her father does not want the Connecticut massacre to "be something that defines us, but something that makes us all better." His clarity while submerged in his grief should make it clear to all of us that no matter what is going on in our own lives we have the ability to do good things.
The hours are flying by. Spend one in total awareness of your actions. Leave the nasty comments left unsaid. Stop the heavy sighs when annoyed. Smile at a child and smile at a stressed out parent. Spend an hour at a homeless shelter or volunteering for any cause you hold close to your heart. Committing to that one hour will feel so good you will crave more. Keep smiling at the neighbor who never smiles back. Extend your hand and don't pull back. This is simple stuff that has the power to make a stranger's difficult day better. This is pure good. And it has the power to make our own lives better. Do it in memory of the children in Connecticut who have no hours left.
