I just had the most amazing Uber ride. A car came at us head-on, in the wrong lane, 50mph. The drag-racing purr of a souped-up engine and the boldness of trauma, sociopathy, or both. I took out my headphones to say, “What the hell?” “I was ready to just close my eyes and let him hit us,” the driver said. He was in his 50s, accented, nicely combed hair and short beard, soothing silver. I asked him where he’s from. Kabul. Came over in the 80s, when he was 14. Before leaving he’d spent time in “holes” because they had no basement to hide in when the bombs were dropping. One night he huddled there for six hours, in the middle of winter, holding his two younger siblings under his shirt. When adults came for them, the kids had frost on their faces. He’s been in America long enough to feel like it’s home; he loves Thanksgiving, it’s a big family affair. So his wife, last night, kept telling him: be careful driving tomorrow. Careful on the bridges, on the streets. The head-on driver must have been why. We get to talking about the Middle East, by way of bombs in Kabul, by way of his dad, who was killed, his siblings, who were killed. I say, I’m incredibly lucky to not have lived an on-the-ground war experience. Hope it stays that way. But what’s different, I think, when you live that, is that the horror of it – and the loving desire for it to stop – become the frame on the world. Not geopolitics. Compassion, because you know. He was agonized about the people of Israel; about the people of Gaza; the people of Kabul; the people of Ukraine. He had compassion; he knew. He said that last night he got together with his Israeli friend and they held each other and cried for a long time. He was crying now in the car, heart-felt. We’d arrived at my destination, and we were still talking – though now it was even between words and tears – and I was still in the back seat. I joined him up front. He was sobbing. So much pain. All the children, the children split in half, the bloodied woman dragged into a car, the young people at a music festival. All the pain. Pray to the God of Moses, pray to Jesus, pray to the God of Mohammad – he prayed to all of them, there, in the car – asking for peace, love, deliverance from the evil. He said, I know You’re there, please, please help. We’re helpless. We held hands, we squeezed shoulders, we traded well-wishes. He said when he sits there looking at me, he sees his son, who’s a few years younger than me. He said he said to his son, a recent college graduate: find an Israeli, find a Jewish person, hug them, hold them, cry with them. We’re all children. I told him I grew up Jewish. The Abrahamic God isn’t my view now, but Love is. I kept wanting to say, live as an expression of love! That was the way. I did. I said, it’s an act of love to have a heart as sensitive as yours. I felt it. I felt his love. People feel the responsiveness, the receptivity. I repeated the Buddhist phrase: may you be happy and free from suffering. May your family be happy and free from suffering. May all your loved ones be happy and free from suffering. May all beings be happy and free from suffering. He had to go pick up another rider. When he rolled away and I was there in the sun, I cried a bit. Heart a little numb today. I walked upstairs to my apartment and imagined him there, a kid, in Kabul, in a hole in the ground, with frost on his face, and I leaned against the wall and cried some more. I saw a text about a movie night. I’ve been asked how I feel about all this. This is how I feel. Live from the heart, live right where you are, because love is on the streets.