I am pure love.

Pure is a hard word to feel at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, with an inbox open and a slight headache coming on.

But look at what you do without deciding to. You get up in the night when someone calls. You hold a door for a stranger with a pram. Something drops in your chest when a person you barely know gets bad news.

None of that is effortful. It is not good character maintained by discipline — it is just the direction you point when nothing is interfering.

Whatever else you are made of, that reflex is in there, running underneath everything, mostly unwitnessed.