There are carrots in my crisper. When I brought them home from the store I took out the cucumbers I had forgotten to eat, the ones that were getting squishy. These were not the universal orange variety, but a bag of a divergent collection of colors: ruby, salmon, and white carrots that aren't merely parsnips that jumped the fence. Part of a carrot's reputation includes improving eyesight, and luring reluctant donkeys toward cooperation. 

 

By my back door there is a pile of sticks. I gathered them after a windy day last fall, in anticipation of a crackling January fire. But the last of the snow is melting, and the supply is not depleted. I suppose I could kindle one anyway, just for ambience. 

 

A friend told me that feeling compassionate is not a shiny reward for obeying the rules. Neither is self absorption a punishment for recalcitrance. That kind of trophy or black mark is arbitrary. We try to link them, like a bell and saliva, but they follow different rules. Like gravity. Or combustion. Or seedlings that push out of the brown earth. 

 

The real relationship between kindness and inner peace, and between  judgmental attitudes and inner turmoil is cause and effect. In releasing our need to constantly update our opinions about other people's choices, we clear away the rancid emotions, making room for altruism. It is not because God waited in the wings for us to make the right move, then quickly compensated us for our trouble. Rather the absence of criticism leaves space for the Lord's love, which presses even more earnestly than air against a vacuum.

 

I think I'll set logs tonight, a teepee of twigs at the heart. As they catch fire I can imagine the combustion of lifeless thoughts, no longer connected to a fruit bearing tree. With a warm bowl of vegetable soup in my hands, I can taste the nourishment of good will.