Compassion

For the last few weeks I’ve been among my farming friends. They are hard --- hard-working, and physically hard. The Prime Minister doesn’t get a great press among them. “She,” or “that woman,” or “bloody Cindy,” is personally responsible for the huge tax on diesel which has a massive effect on the farming sector; and for the three hundred percent rise in the cost of fertiliser stunting the opportunity for rapid pasture regeneration; and for the land prices which prevent their children getting a start in farming. They are passionate about the land, and they are passionate about their role in primary production. They hope that their side will get into bat at the next election, and that the “greenies” will go back to guarding frogs.

But they are also passionate together. The young fellow across the road, with his know-all diploma from Lincoln, over-stocked his block last winter and ran out of feed. They found enough feed for him, they gave him some lessons on land/stock ratios, and they essentially taught him how to farm, something his degree seemed to overlook. The two gay artists who live together up in the farm cottage used to be pariahs in the district. Now they’ve been welcomed into this community and afforded the respect they deserve. A sniff of crème-de-menthe can sit alongside a stubbie of Export Gold over in the shed on a Friday afternoon.

Being passionate together: that’s my definition of COMPASSION. It’s something dynamic, not just a feeling. It’s about acting upon feeling someone else’s pain. It’s at its most powerful when it’s done together, when the pain is shared, when the community reaches out in a common embrace. It ignores politics and social class and status of any kind. It’s about us being at our most human, reaching out to people at their most human. And that’s compassion, when the human touches the divine.