Nine-eleven.

                  Lives lost are numbers unless they’re yours. Three thousand killed that day. On any day in America, more than eight thousand die. It’s less the casualties that haunt than a deeper loss. Of our beneficence. With voracious cynicism, our nation’s managers chose to turn personal tragedy into political opportunity. Let’s treat this attack by a few fanatics as pretext for an endless global war, they decided. Let’s cast suspicion on an entire religion, the world’s second largest. Let’s transform our leader into a wartime President, as the Japanese remade FDR on December 7, 1941.

                  Scary enemies make good politics – in the short term. We rally ‘round the flag, set aside our differences in the common cause. But war darkens every sky. That day, twenty-five years ago, for political advantage, our leaders chose to transform America into an embattled nation, under dire threat, instead of the peace-loving, world-bettering nation we’d imagined ourselves since the close of World War II. Hating became part of who we were. We’ve switched out enemies, but the hate is constant. Our present leaders’ only policy is hate, vengeance their only plan. When down on your political luck, bankrupt of kindness, attack!

                  “Too long a sacrifice,” groaned Yeats, during another endless war, “can make a stone of the heart.” Sooner or later, hating turns people hateful. We can’t help it. We grow hard, resentful, bitter. Americans these days, instead of making the world better for all, want to prevail, to hell with everyone else.

                  I hate hating. Love is my agenda. Better for all, not safer for me and mine. Envisioning oneself beset by foes, one is never safe. Enemies murmur in every dim corner. Better safe than sorry!

                  Paranoia is a condition, not a program; a debilitating disease, not a therapeutic prescription. Hating you dare not hug, even risk a smile.

                  The shock of the last dozen years is how many Americans opted for hate. We twice chose as leader a reviler-in-chief. We invented enemies to fuel our rage. Unwed mothers, people of color, “woke” educators, poor confused transgender kids, illegal immigrants, somebody had to be blamed for our grim mood! These days, it seems, we’re at war with everybody, and if a nation fails to kowtow, we’ll just abduct their leader, strangle their economy, or blow them up. The hate kindled on nine-eleven burns on, incinerating souls.

                  I consulted dog-pal Henry for guidance in my pro-love initiative. Henry’s skittish with strangers for a minute but after that he loves non-stop. His love makes him lovable, for love is infectious. Neither does he blame. He dislikes being refused treats or left alone, but no worries, we must have our reasons. He is glad to see everyone which makes (almost) everyone glad to see him.

                  Why can’t humans be so reliably cordial, I asked? Hostility’s a choice, not a doom, isn’t it? Doesn’t loving feel better than loathing?

                  Weakness hates. We hate those who threaten, demean, bypass, disappoint us with ourselves. Henry doesn’t compare his life to another’s and find his wanting; he’s happy in the here and now. Humans are forever comparing, making excuses, finding fault. Our mereness galls.

                  Love is the anodyne for hate. And we can learn to love. Accept your mereness; we are all destined for dust. Accept your job on earth, which is to improve the lives of all. Greet every person as worthy of your embrace, until proven otherwise. Smile, even when you don’t feel like it. Turn your frown upside down.

                  Hate kindles hate, love love. Since love is preferable and more pleasurable, Henry suggests, why not give it a try?