I Cannot Change the World.

But I can change this.

I put my phone down, my allotted doomscrolling done. The latest horror, the most current assault on democracy, the recent traumas inflicted on us daily have my shoulders near my ears, my jaw clenched, my head aching.

I cannot change the world by witnessing these horrors, by absorbing everyone’s pain, by liking or reposting to social media. I do call my reps, fat lot of good it will do, and I donate, and unpack my signs and stand on corners with other people who want something better, and eventually come home to a little personal peace.

Today I pack my stainless-steel seed trays with soil, then press tiny black seeds into the surface, every seed a hope for something wonderful to come, something beautiful, something that will feed pollinators. I’ve removed most of my ridiculous green lawn from the front of my house and have slowly but surely transformed it into a four-season flower garden. This year I had scores of lightning bugs thriving on a native patch of fragrant white aster. My neighbors, walking home from temple, waved to me and asked what I was smiling at.

To the father, Rabbi Silver, I asked, “Do you remember seeing lightning bugs as a child?”

“Oh, yes. But I can’t remember the last time I saw any.”

“Come out at dusk tonight and you will.”

They did. And the next week, when other members of their temple walked home for Shabbat, I heard the family explain to the small crowd what those black-winged, pill-shaped bugs with an orange dot were. The next week, several young women from the temple asked me to identify various plants for them. I make a point of coming outside at just the right time every Saturday to wish them all a Good Shabbat. They make a point of chatting to me and asking questions if I’m working in the garden.

I cannot change the world, but I could change this little patch of grass.

Wee tiny lacewing eggs, a formidable friend come summer and fighter of pests, discovered on an airplane plant leaf.

Across the street at the Fang residence, I get shy nods for the first year living in my home. I make sure to wish them Happy New Year at the appropriate time, “Gong hei fat choy.” They smile at my poor pronunciation and offer me a modest bow.

“I like the garden,” Mrs. Fang tells me, her husband smiling from behind. He is very proper and never speaks to me if she is not present. He’s retired, I’m told, and they both want to learn how to garden beyond tending their houseplants.

“Please, if you see me in the garden, don’t hesitate to ask me anything. It’s my pleasure,” I tell them.

They don’t, but then, most people see how much labor I put into my garden and decide maybe they don’t want to be better at it, after all. But they always nod and wave to me, and occasionally, if Mrs. Fang is present, they will tell me of some blossom they admire.

I cannot change the world, but I can make something my neighbors will admire, something that gives them pleasure.

The lady catty-cornered to my house is also a gardener. She isn’t a very good one, but she’s incredibly enthusiastic. Her daughter, my age, died suddenly after I moved into my home, and she told me once that she now had no one, no friends, and no child. I held her as she cried and told her she did have a friend, me.

We wave and chat in the street about gardening plans and favorite plants, and which tomatoes are the best to grow at which time of year, and then she hangs a very large TRUMP sign in her garden. Right at the very edge of her property with the Silvers.

I hang my inclusive LGBTQ flag in my garden, facing her property.

She stops waving at me. We no longer chat in the middle of the street. She doesn’t seek my opinions about tomatoes or anything else.

I cannot change the world, and I cannot change her, it seems.

Daffodil from my garden, Spring 2025, “Tahitian Sunrise”

And then Morning Mom Jogger starts pulling her earbuds out when she passes me. “Love the garden this year!” Brisk Walking Retired couple, with the year ‘round “SHALOM!” sign on their front window, offer me a high five while speed walking down the sidewalk, a thumb up in the air a few feet past, “Looking good!” tossed over their shoulders. A lovely group of Desi gardeners chat with me about plants they grew back home in India and suggest I should also try to grow elachi and moti elachi. I’d grown too many tomato seeds and had more plants than my garden could hold. They’d volunteered to take them. We share our excesses with each other every year, now.

I cannot change the world, but I can change myself. I can leave myself open, I can be kind, I can be willing to share and listen and offer a hand.

Even if I cannot change the world, I can plant seeds for change.

Part of my seed starting rig.