Normal has an extraordinary glow of comfort when things are turning to shit. Normal is your mother’s hand on your cheek. Normal is the blanket of your youth pulled up to your neck, your head deep in billowy pillows that only this morning seemed due for replacement. Normal is precious, rich, unique, a reward for suffering long or short.

When something terrible happens, we want normal. It might be just one fine thing that is normal while all around cascades terrible, freakish, unbelievable things but if this one normal thing can occur, then we can settle down, rest, and stop careening around, a BB in a bare room.

This morning’s paper detailed the criticism aimed at President Obama for going about his normal schedule in light of the plane shot down over Ukraine and the ever-ratcheted up conflict between Israel and Palestine. He should be at the White House, act like a Commander in Chief…