Groundhog Day: Do you need to do it again?

Today is Groundhog Day, a peculiarly American holiday—or is it? It evolved from the medieval Christian celebration of Candlemas, to which weather prognostications involving the European hedgehog were added in Germany. When Germans emigrated to Western Pennsylvania, according to the website of the Punxutawney Groundhog Club, they chose a similar hibernating animal from among the local fauna. The first such festival in Punxutawney, PA recorded in the newspaper took place in 1886. Does the eponymous groundhog, Punxutawney Phil, ever really see his shadow? If he does, do six more weeks of winter follow? Does it matter? Does anyone care? The multitudes who flock to Punxutawney on February 2nd every year are surely folks who seize any excuse to join a crowd, make a noise, and enjoy whatever refreshments are on offer.

Since 1991, the term Groundhog Day has come to mean more than an annual weather prediction wrapped in a fur coat for all seasons. Bill Murray's portrayal of a cynical reporter who gets trapped in a time loop in Punxutawney became a movie classic, and his dilemma has become a metaphor for having to do something—in particular, to do it badly or to make mistakes—over and over until you get it right.

It's not much of a leap to the idea that there's something wrong with doing anything once. In our own field, I've heard numerous discussions in which some writers claim that if you're really a writer, you write every day...or if you're really a writer, you always want to write...or if you're really a writer, you'll never want to stop writing for good. If that's true, how do you explain Harper Lee, author of To Kill A Mockingbird, which more readers than not consider the best novel of the twentieth century? It's the only novel she wrote. Wasn't Harper Lee really a writer? (I refuse to consider the unedited version that was published when she was 102 and imo incompetent to say no a second novel.) Of course she was.

In any endeavor, "doing it again" is considered the seal of approval on anything you do once, whether it's visiting Paris in the spring, whale watching off Cape Cod, sailing in the Caribbean, skiing in the Alps, or whatever you happen to think is exciting or romantic or adventurous. "This is wonderful!" you say. "We have to do it again." This sets you up for disappointment and a sense of failure, or at least a nagging feeling that you've missed out on the best that life has to offer. Because life is full of new experiences, as well as time-consuming challenges and catastrophes. You never do get back to Paris or the Alps, or not in spring or skiing season.

The older I get, the more I let go of preconceptions, ambitions, and burning desires that seemed immutable when I was younger. Last month I wrote about not having to live forever. Today, Groundhog Day reminds me that the things I have done once are sufficient unto themselves. I detest the marketing phrase "making memories." When you're there, wherever it is, be there. But I do have some perfect jewels that are my memories of experiences I have had once: visiting Timbuktu in 1965, camping in Yosemite in 1975. Not only could these experiences not be recreated, but Timbuktu has changed in 60 years, as has Yosemite—and camping in Yosemite—in 50 years. The world is not so welcoming; the wild is not so wild. I settled for a tame environment, ie a hotel pool, for swimming with dolphins in Hawaii. The dolphin kissed me on the lips and swam between my legs. It was enough for both of us.

Then there are physical experiences that I never would have mastered. I'm glad I did them once.

Skiing: the smell of cold andevergreen, blue shadows on snow and white birch, the crunch of snow as I told myself over and over to keep my weight on the downhill ski. I made it down the novice slope triumphantly. Riding a horse: okay, three times: once at age 6, once at age 23 with a Western saddle, once in my 50s with an English saddle, never faster than a walk, thank God, even when we unexpectedly met a deer on the trail through the brush. Just enough. Flying a plane: I logged 30 hours in a Cessna 150. The “once” would have been when I soloed, but I had to quit before that happened. I confess I was relieved.

A few more experiences that could only have happened once:

Visiting Narita-san Temple in Japan, ten minutes by train from the Narita Airport that serves Tokyo. We were on our way to my son's wedding in Manila. A French artist friend and his Brazilian wife turned our dreary stopover into a magical side trip. It was February: almond blossoms and light snow were falling.

Chipping rock for garnets on a mountain in Vermont in 1950. I was six years old, at summer camp, and only remembered this recently. This is definitely illegal now; I don't know about then.

An English country house weekend fifty years ago. No, there was no murder. Yes, I fell in love. I eventually got six poems, three flash stories, and, um, a great deal of emotional growth out of it. I didn’t need to do it again. I didn't even need to write a novel.