Love is all there is, says the song.
Love is compassion in action, says a Buddhist lama who teaches near here.
On this damp warm evening of this very wet spring, feeding the chickens, I repeatedly fail to feel compassion for the eager mosquitos who seek a blood meal to be able to lay their eggs. They seem to view me as a moving feast, as they buzz delightedly around my ears, calling their sisters to come share the resource. I wonder if they love me or not. If I let them suck my blood in spite of the immediate sting and the days of itching welts that will come later, do they feel gratitude?