I was reading an article about the search for compassion. I felt like emailing the author to tell him, "Oh hey, it's over here at my place. Come and fill your boots. I've got plenty - bring a bucket!"
It seems hard to imagine people questing to suffer with their fellow man. In my garden, compassion grows like a weed, volunteering itself in every nook and crany, winding its way between more useful plants, seeding itself with abandon. Ahimsa, Karuna, Einfuhlung - a rose by any other name - Compassion comes crowding out my borders, cascading over every rock wall, merrily entwining itself around my heart when I bend over to water the lettuce. It is a fine line between being able to see someone else's pain and being able to feel it with them. I cross that line daily, and it leaves me with a tangle of emotions to sort and prune.
I'm feeling in stereo this fine spring. My loyalties are all over the map. I'm fiercely defensive, and ready to do battle, but given that I love everyone involved, instead all I can do is offer my hand to the people hurting most, and to hold it as steady as I can.
I didn't ask for it. But this particular weed is welcome in my backyard.
