Monday, July 20, 2009
Gaia and Luna
I was three years old.
In the living room of my mother's cousin's home in Canada -- family vacation.
How often did a toddler's parents park her in front of a television set and command: Watch! Remember!
I remember it more vividly than I remember my high school graduation, my own wedding, the morning of September 11.
Of all the generations of homo sapiens who have lived on this planet, of all the generations who are yet to come, we are the ones who experienced this singular moment.
Our planet became no longer The World. Never just A World. Our World. A whole thing, one among many, and the only home for all of us.
In 2009 dollars, the entire Apollo program cost about 20% of what we've spent waging war against a country that never attacked us, and hunting for one contemptible criminal who remains free.
I have a secret ambition. In sixty years, I want to be that crochety old broad, that ornery centarian to whom reporters flock for The Interview.
The old woman on her nineteenth-century farm who remembers The Day of the twentieth. Of the millenium.
Will one of those reporters drop in by video link from her home on Mars?
Do we have the greatness of will to make that happen?