When I was in my 20s and living in Manhattan, I thought I could save the world.  I truly believed that by not eating meat or wearing leather products I was sparing the lives of specific cows, chickens, turkeys, and pigs.  I was certain that by substitute teaching in a drug-infested school in Harlem, I was helping these children choose a different path in life.   I was confident that by volunteering once a week to feed the homeless, I was doing my part to end the terrible conditions of "bag people" everywhere.  

It took me under a year to figure out that my measly contributions were not going to move mountains.  Though the problems of the world weighed on me like nothing ever had before, I began to feel that what I did wouldn't make much of a difference.  I continued giving of my time to worthy causes but my passion waned.  Partly, it was a result of friends' and family members' constant barrage of discouraging words ("But it's not making you happy to be so worried about others; Look--you're still wearing a leather belt so you're a hypocrite!").   But I was also exhausted to be the black sheep among the people in my life who chose to neatly place social issues in the mental file labeled "evening news."

This morning, as I wheeled my cart through Fairway, gathering my turkey and other necessities for Thanksgiving dinner, it dawned on me that the world doesn't need to be saved so much as altered.  It's not about working to change an entire social paradigm (though, ultimately it is).  It's more about sparking the environment of a specific moment in time.   It's about igniting a flame in your life and in the lives of those affected by your actions so that a change begins within individual souls.

My mind wandered back 16 years to my meeting with Joe, a man living under the Brooklyn Bridge.  After getting out of the volunteer van that was transporting us through the city and its boroughs, I stepped through the mildewed garments and moldy food scraps that littered the concrete of this darkened underworld.  Joe was sitting on a makeshift stool beside a huge cardboard refrigerator box that was set up like a bed with an old wool,  plaid blanket neatly flattened out over the bottom.  A huge rat scurried by us as I was handing him a cheese sandwich.   I flinched.  "Oh," he chuckled, "dontcha worry about that.  I'll keep 'em away from ya!"   The humanity that shone from his bloodshot eyes at that moment gave me chills.

Another memory that visits me often is that of a fifth-grade girl from a Harlem classroom where I substitute taught.  I was with her class for over a month.  Each day, Princess would bounce into the room fifteen minutes late, her rastafarian braids bopping up and down as she danced around.  After several days of trying unsuccessfully to engage her in the lesson, I expressed my dismay to a fellow teacher in the staff lounge.  "Are you kidding?!"  he snapped.  "She's been smoking crack since she's 7--don't waste your time."    A week later, however, as I was playing the "dictionary game" with the class, Princess raced to the dictionary, was the first to find the word, and proudly ran to the black board to write down the definition.  The smile that was plastered across her face as I praised her work will never fade from my mind.

This past September, my family and I volunteered at a low-income housing shelter where we handed out backpacks, school supplies, toys, games and clothing to the residents.  My 10-year-old son decided to bring along a GameBoy DS that he didn't use so often.  When a young boy walked by the table we were working behind, he slowly ran his fingers along the board books.  My son nudged me and whispered, "Can I give him the GameBoy?"  I nodded my head and my son asked him if he wanted a GameBoy, holding it out to him.  The boy's face transformed from passive to alive with emotion.  The whites of his eyes against the beautiful darkness of his skin seemed to shine toward my son like a powerful flashlight ray, illuminating the shy smile that had begun to emerge on my son's face.

The problems of our world are too vast to be fixed by any one person.  But dozens. . .hundreds. . . thousands. . . millions of individuals can create sparks with each of their small contributions.  Unfortunately, there will always be poverty, homelessness, drug problems, and worse in our society.  Reaching out to just one person who is affected by these ills can affect that one person's mind, which, in turn, will affect how that one person reacts to the hardships placed before him or her.  As we prepare to give thanks this holiday, we should also vow to give of ourselves in the coming year.  Just one good deed can change the moral balance that quietly exists in the air we all breathe.