Somewhere today, in the here and now, in the world as it is, a soldier sees he's outgunned, but stands firm to keep the peace. Somewhere today, in this world, a young protestor awaits the brutality of her government, but has the courage to march on. Somewhere today, a mother facing punishing poverty still takes the time to teach her child, scrapes together what few coins she has to send that child to school - because she believes that a cruel world still has a place for that child's dreams.

Let us live by their example. We can acknowledge that oppression will always be with us, and still strive for justice. We can admit the intractability of depravation, and still strive for dignity. Clear-eyed, we can understand that there will be war, and still strive for peace. We can do that - for that is the story of human progress; that's the hope of all the world; and at this moment of challenge, that must be our work here on Earth.

- President Barack Obama, accepting the Nobel Peace Prize, 12/10/09

The link above takes you to the full text of his speech today. It may take you a bit to get through it, but I would encourage you to do so. My understanding is it did not go over well with the crowd in Oslo, and I can see why. It is not fluffy. Instead, it is pragmatic, makes no apologies, and refuses to see the world with rose-colored glasses.

This administration has not yet had its year anniversary. For the most part, I feel as if the past year has been about unfulfilled potential. Then again, I do not envy this man or his administration the tasks set before them, daunting no matter what party you ascribe to, circumstances that fall not on the shoulders of any one particular administration or political stripe but years and years of bad or at least inattentive governance. This, though. This has some meat. I don't know how it felt, or sounded, delivered from the man himself. But I'm glad to read it, and I think it's important, and I think it will be one of those speechs for which he is remembered when history has her way and all the rest is dust.

The other day, walking into preschool, the bean noticed a classmate and his dad behind us, and turned around to prance back and grab said classmate's hand, both of them half-skipping to the door. Watching the two of them, both boys, I sighed and said to the other parent, "Man, I wonder how long this lasts."

"Not long enough," he replied.

I keep thinking about that. Tonight, picking him up from preschool, one of his buddies, also a boy, asked him for a hug before he left. "Kisses, too!" Aidan exclaimed and they gave each other a resounding smack on the mouth. It was adorable, and bittersweet, at least for the one watching.

I figure he has one, maybe two more years before societal conventions worm their way into his still-forming psyche. It makes me sad, because it was beautiful to watch, a simple and heartfelt expression of affection for a friend that will, in a handful of years, garner him a slur if he actually deigns to continue the behavior.

Sometimes I wish I could stop time, just to hold onto these moments, and the sweet little boy who is growing up before my eyes.

from the mouths of babes

The bean came with me to work this morning, because we had an appointment a little later on and I had promised him he could.

We listen to NPR in the car in the mornings on the way to preschool and work, he and I. Or I listen, and occasionally he will ask me questions about what he hears.

This morning, there was a particularly moving storycorps story about a little boy who had a premonition about his death. You can see the article and listen to the audio [here]. Predictably, I started to cry. I don't cry about a lot of things very easily. These days, it's pretty much soldiers and young children.

Anyway, himself was quite concerned, understandably, and asked me what was wrong. I explained that a little boy had died, and it made me sad. He nodded, and thought about that a minute. But God and Jesus helped him, right? he asked. Yes, I said, sniffling a little harder at that. God came to take him home.

A. nodded at that, satisifed, but still concerned because I was visibly upset. Mama, he said, putting his arms around me as I got him out of the car, you shouldn't be sad. God and Jesus will take very good care of him. And when we die they will take care of us, too.

I thought to myself, I wish it were that simple, that easy. Then again, I thought, looking at his upturned face, maybe it is.

Edited to add: My little preacher has been spreading the good word all morning because of this, telling everyone he comes in contact with about the radio story, and that thanks to God we don't have to be afraid. I'm sorry, Lord, the message you were trying to get through again was? (All the subtlely of a Mack truck today, apparently.)

Enough about Brett Favre already. It's hockey time, go Caps! (And the Admirals, of course.) See? Even A-dog's excited.

Much like people spend obscene amounts of money to bury their pets but not their parents, I am completely and utterly fascinated by the ways in which we publicly grieve for those we've never met.

I hate this week.

Every year for eight years now I have hated this week. PTSD rears its ugly head. I have bad dreams about planes, and fire, and the smell of jet fuel and the uncensored press room feed soundtrack of bodies hitting the ground.

Eight years. An eternity and a heartbeat and the reality is somewhere in between. There is so much life that has happened between now and then that I don't even know how to articulate the difference. 302,952,960 more heartbeats than they got. Give or take a few.

I realized earlier that a high school freshman was in first grade when the towers fell, when the hole blossomed in the heart of the Pentagon, when how we viewed the world changed. I wonder if they can possibly fathom what it was like before, what they take for granted after. I kind of hate that. I want to shake them and talk about what it meant, to taste ash, to sit and wait for word, to watch as that great big flag stretched like a bandage across the charred remains of a building and how I had to look at it every day and remember.

I want to cry for how little has actually changed, for false and fake patriotism used to disguise real acts of terror, perversions of justice and the desecration of our Constitution and I'm scared that's all still going on. That we still provide bombs to allies in faraway lands that are stamped "Made in the USA" and kill mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and breed new generations of people for whom the United States is the worst of four letter words. I can't even be mad at them, when we make their martyrs.

8 years. 416 weeks. 2,920 days. 70,080 hours. 4,204,800 minutes. 302,952,960 heartbeats. I still remember, because I don't have the luxury of being able to forget.

The woman across the street died today. It was not a surprise. She has been fighting breast cancer for the last couple of years, actively dying for the past couple of months. Over the past two weeks all of her children have come home, her grandchildren, the driveway and street littered with visitors coming with food and drink, staying a little while to pass the time with her and as much as I’ve always maintained that I don’t want a slow death there is something to be said for this, a wake while still alive.

Today the ambulance came, no lights or sirens. They took their kits in, but no stretchers, and the next car to come was from the funeral home. They don’t use hearses anymore, not for removals. Too disturbing for people, I guess, for our people, anyway, here in America where death is a four-letter word. The dead are carried out to mini-vans that come in any color but black and we avert our eyes from the brightly-colored quilts that now cover what’s left of their earthly remains so as to not be reminded of our own mortality.

I did not know her very well, the woman across the street. They moved here to be closer to better care for her husband, a quadriplegic. It is ironic, of course, that she went first, but those decisions are rarely in our own hands. She was kind, and curious, always asked after A., who played with her own grandkids when they visited. Even a couple of weeks ago she still looked herself, if a little weaker. She must have gone downhill quickly, but stayed long enough to say goodbye.

Maybe I would have wanted that time after all.

why is it that so many of the most religious are in turn the least faithful?

but things were good when we were young

i got sneered at by a 16-year old kid on the drive into work this morning. i rolled my eyes and started to think disparaging thoughts about today's youth, and then realized that my 16-year old self would totally have sneered at the person i am today.

so it goes.