Reading Havel again, wondering how a person living inside the Soviet sphere in the 1970s, say, can locate a lot of confidence in human possibility. Yet it's there in "The Power of the Powerless," the essay, and in the fine documentary by the same name, moment by moment, when people keep finding a way to say "this is the right thing for us and so we'll do it" even when they will be slapped down for saying or doing, either one.

A small example: in the documentary's extra scenes, one of the young participants in the "velvet revolution" remembers an old woman pushing a wheelbarrow into town during the height of the protests. In the barrow, a wooden cask of brandy. "My husband buried it in the garden when the communists came," she said, "and we vowed to dig it up when they were driven out. He didn't live long enough to see the day, but now I have dug it out and I bring it here. Have a drink, today is the day we waited for." [Paraphrase.]

Enduring hope, generosity, human spirit secreted away if necessary to preserve it for another day. Clues that there are things to believe in if we keep our eyes open. Not empty, stupid hope, but particular kinds of possibility, in solo creativity and teamwork and affiliation that amplifies our voices and our strengths.