Turning the lens outward. Lebanon. Israel. Hezbollah.

The voice of my tempter whispers again: What does this have to do with you? You’re not part of an Abrahamic faith. This doesn’t belong on a Paganism blog.

I do not have a solution. But on both sides—on all sides, really—of the conflict, there is suffering that cannot be countenanced. Aggression going under the name of defense. Unjustifiable death and destruction. The constant snuffing out of lives.

Again: So you’re going to what, blog about it? Oh, that’ll help a lot. Shush. I listen to you, I submit to despair--not even rational despair, just apathy. So stuff it.

The people dying, and the people killing, are part of this same world as I; my brothers and sisters. Part of the Goddess. And this is that which is in us that is capable of causing misery.

If I do not do something now, my children and my grandchildren will have just cause to look at my generation and my time with horror. What did you do to stop it? Did you do anything at all?

The little actions seem so feeble. A pittance sent to an organization calling for peace, a tiny work of art or charity surrounded by a sea of indifference and loss. And the big actions seem beyond my capacity to act; I'm not a mediator, nor a diplomat, and I don't have the power to back up any big action.

But this much I do know: None of the big-scale solutions--none of the messy diplomacy and negotiations that need to take place--can occur without a cease-fire. As long as the killing goes on, there is no room for the debate and mediation that needs to happen. Nothing but bloodshed and posturing will be accomplished on any side by more death.

So I will start my call here. There must be a cease-fire, enforced, on all sides.

Tonight I start taking the little steps, no matter what the tempter says about their usefulness. A letter to the editor. A letter to my representative. A donation to a group with a louder voice. A quilt of a thousand hands reaching for peace.

I do not have a solution. I only have the conviction that this must somehow stop--and thin, thin threads to weave toward an answer.