I'm being silly. I just finished writing a lengthy(probably too lengthy) comment in Amber's blog about how Americans are perceived by non-Americans, trying to point out that not every American fits the belligerent, ignorant stereotype. (Certainly I know lots of Americans for whom it does not fit. Whenever I meet an American for whom it does fit, I always cringe. Anyway.) I hope I didn't sound too defensive, as really her blog entry just made me think about the larger issue, and not about the specific image with which she illustrated the entry. Now I should be writing, but I'm still thinking, and not about how epileptic seizures may possibly be triggered by low frequency electromagnetic impulses in the atmosphere called sferics, which is what I have been reading about lately, and yes, it's research, probably best to leave it like that ;-) (Writers are weird.)

Anyway, what Amber's blog made me think about was compassion. It's something I've been contemplating lately, probably since the election. This love-your-enemy thing. (Or at least, this understand-your-enemy thing.) I don't claim to have achieved love-my-enemy status, but what I have been thinking about is that in order to love your enemy, you first have to perceive of your enemy as a person -- a human being who was a child once, who has a history and a soul, a human being who has fears and weak spots and a psychology, the same as I do. This does not prevent me from being angry at wrong-doing, but when I am able to go past my anger to try and achieve some understanding, I find that I am able to respond to the world in a much more actively love-ing fashion, rather than simply lashing out in anger. Anger is good as fuel sometimes, but it doesn't last long. Maybe it functions as an after-burner, but it takes a lot of energy. Love, in contrast, just spills out. You can't hold it in. It takes effort, but only in that you have to take those first shaky steps past anger and fear. Unknown territory is always scary.

Anyway, this has nothing to do with what Amber was talking about, really, and I sound as if I know what I'm talking about, when I really don't. I'm still making those small, shaky steps. There's a little book called The Quaker Book of Wisdom, which Andy brought home before we went on our Thanksgiving trip. It was a quick little read, and though I stolidly maintain that I'm Catholic (and that Catholicism is *not* monolithic, thank you very much) I find that Quakerism seems to be like a missing piece of spirituality for me. Anyway, there's a Quaker expression (which comes from an early Quaker, I believe, but I'm still learning about this stuff, so don't quote me) which likens the practice of being compassionate, of loving neighbor, of doing good acts, etc., to being a part of a sea of light, a sea of light which is forever buffetted, and sometimes nearly engulfed by a sea of darkness. But as long as there is some light, darkness can never completely snuff it out.

(Paraphrasing there, rather clumsily.)

In any case, the image resounded with me. I think it's something that wells up in my writing a lot -- this idea of a sea of darkness, a hopelessness that threatens to overwhelm the light. Maybe this is why so many people say my work is dark. But I don't really see it that way. I see even my darkest stories as being about hope. Because when all the lights are on, you don't need hope. It's only when the lights go off that you realize how bright that one measly little candle is.