Last evening I sat on the porch swing, looking out over our yard through layers of green: the climbing rose arching against the brick of our porch, then the lilacs, bursting with first purple blooms, then the peach tree's long fish-shaped leaves; behind that the flutter of the quaking aspens, lime green against white bark, and finally across the street, the velvet backdrop of a purple plum. Beatrix played at my feet with a pile of sticks and rocks, building a house. The weather was perfect, all was beautiful, beautiful, and I found myself just able to enjoy it.

In the last few days I've realized that my joy, a pool I've always bathed myself in, managing to find at least a few drops on a dry day, has been running quite low. I didn't know.

And I write this next bit unspecifically, with no identifying details: Our situation has wearied me, the knowledge that one rash decision by a few men--that their decision has ended our lives here--this continues to sap my energy. That the petty cruelty continues (before the 'sheets are even cold' they've listed the position, packed with pretty Christian descriptions of an ideal candidate), tires me. I have forgiven, shrugged off, let go of a need to retaliate, but all the same, my mind is changing, readying myself to leave. When I look at the house I see resale; when I look at the garden I'm filled with the heaviness of what needs to be done before another can begin to love it as we have; when I slip into full enjoyment of our community, an undercurrent of encroaching departure checks me. And in all this, I've tried to cling to the kernels of truth that are stronger than the diminutive evils at play: we love one another, we are loved, a new place waits for us somewhere. To imagine a different life--this is what we must do, all while enjoying every moment here in the fullest way we can. It is a hard task!

This morning I steeled myself again: I will not let small, miserable people rob me of my joy.

I realize afresh that turning toward joy, when to snap to anger and justice would be so easy, is a choice I must make day by day, moment by moment. When I tell people that we're doing fine, I mean it. On good days I revel in all the goodness that is mine, and I believe it and I am grateful. On other days I look at what is beautiful and have to squint through the smut to see it fully.

Martin and I were talking the other night about the Quaker idea that everyone bears a light within, the light of God's image, the stamp of being fully human and inherently worthwhile. It is this belief that convicted the Quakers that Native Americans must be treated with respect; it is this belief, too, that filled them with the courage to fight slavery.

When I look at certain people, I admit I find it very hard to find their inner light, especially when it seems they have done everything they can to deaden their own light. Of course my eyes are cataracted by my own pettiness--what I want, what I feel I deserve, anger. But I believe in the inner light in everyone and everything; I believe that all that is created contains at least a small pebble of goodness, and probably much more if it is loved. So then, is that what I must do? Is it possible to really see without love? People say that love clouds perspective, but I think, in the case of inner light, that it is the other way around. I think love gives us the eyes to see light burning in another person, and when I am given the task of loving something unlovable, then I must call on courage. Nothing is transformed, least of all my own sight, without love.

The other day I found myself taking care of a baby who was not mine. I was the best candidate to hold him and try to coax him into sleep, but I was tired, overwhelmed by children (also not mine) who were acting badly and whom I could not wait to leave behind with their parents. Someone handed me a bottle filled with bright red punch to feed to the baby, and the idea of feeding a sugary drink to a child repelled me. When I was honest with myself, the baby repelled me as well; his nose was runny, he was rather unattractive (seen by my frustrated, weary eyes at that moment), and he kept reaching up to put his hand in my mouth, as babies do. I saw my own repulsion, and it was horrifying to confront. I asked for eyes of love. I had to. I had no natural maternal feelings or compassion--those were all spent. And I sat in the rocking chair and held the baby and sang "You are my sunshine" and fed him his terrible sugar drink. I noticed the way his jaw trembled when he slipped into sleep, the last sucking instinct, the same one my babies had when I breastfed them. And while my love for this baby was not perfect, while I still feel troubled at my unimaginative coldness, I was given enough love to hold that baby, to act rightly, not to pass him off until he was soundly sleeping. And that was, I suppose, enough, and perhaps all I could receive at that moment.

So today, Kim, call on courage. Joy, love, courage--all three. I'll try.