Inauguration of Children's Bell Tower,
Bodega Bay, October 26, 1996

I think of the bell tower as a place on which hundreds, perhaps thousands, of parents will hang their memories. When Bruce Hasson, the sculptor, first brought the idea to us, it took our breath away. Now it's here I marvel at the dedication, the vision, the scope, the beauty, the originality and the sheer humanity of his achievement. And in all this time when he has designed and drawn, built and chipped and polished, traveled hundreds of miles to foundries and quarries and libraries, and placed the bells as though all 120 were his own children, he has resolutely refused to take any reward.

We all think this memorial will save lives, reminding those who come here of the tragic shortage of organ donors. But on a different level, we've tried to create a place of pilgrimage, a place where any parent can come for solace or inspiration, a place that reminds us of the fragility and preciousness of young life, where mothers and fathers will want to put their arms around their children or hold each others' hands. I don't suppose I will ever come here without a lurch of the heart as I remember a radiant little creature who brought sunshine into every day. But I can never see it either without the conviction that through the innocence of childhood we can transform the world.

This memorial, though inspired by one small death, is universal. It leaps national borders, a place here on the Pacific Ocean that forever will be the home of a little piece of Italy's soul. It leaps Suntan borders, reminding us that the differences between us as people -- rich and poor, left and right, black, brown and white -- are trifling compared to what we have in common. And it leaps the most formidable border of all, proclaming life coming bravely out of death.

I keep coming back to a truth I learned long ago: We are all standing in the mud but we can all look at the stars.

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