Earlier this year, I read someone’s post online that said whenever she felt tempted to complain about everything that’s wrong with the world, instead, she stopped and tried doing something to make the world better somehow — even something that seemed small, like taking her dog outside or checking on a neighbor.

When I read this, I set my phone down for a moment. Immediately, I noticed how angry I was. My muscles were tense, my breathing shallow. Why are we always so angry when we scroll? But this proposed remedy struck me as deeply surprising and painfully obvious at the same time. I’d need to think about it more. I took a few deep breaths before returning to my day.

Around that time, I started carrying garbage bags with me everywhere. Every spring, I notice all the little pieces of trash that emerge from beneath the snow when it melts. This year, for some reason, I became a self-appointed neighborhood cleaning crew, bringing my infant son along as my reluctant supervisor.

I had no plan. I just stashed some bags in our jogging stroller and got walking.

I don’t pick up litter to feel good about myself, and I definitely don’t think it makes me a good person. All I think is that I’m out here anyway, so why not? And I do enjoy a certain sense of satisfaction in tidying things up, even if I’m the only one who notices. Because how can anyone notice the absence of something that was never meant to be there in the first place?

But I won’t stop. Twice in the past few months, I have found open blades near the sidewalk along my route. First a box cutter; then, some kind of utility knife. Both appeared to have been dropped quite by accident, but on a busy street where families walk daily. Aside from that, though, who really knows if my litter picking truly makes any difference? After all, the garbage is still going to get landfilled or incinerated somewhere else, right?

What I can say for sure is that the change I’ve noticed in myself is very real. Somehow, collecting random trash has made me slower to anger, more gentle and kind. It’s stopped me ruminating on things far beyond my control, while also giving me the mental fortitude to still think about those challenging topics when it’s appropriate. (Think: national politics, global conflicts, the environment, etc.) It’s opened my heart to a spiritual life I’d long ignored, and I have been surprised to find myself praying and meditating for the first time in a long time, as I scan the ground for scraps of cellophane.

So, again, there’s a meaningful absence. An absence of litter on the curb. An absence of a utility knife loose in the neighborhood. An absence of frustration in my heart.

Small, purposeful acts that prevent harm are hard to define and quantify. It’s possible that even if we could measure them, these small acts still wouldn’t amount to much, but I sometimes imagine they’re helping us prepare the way to something greater.

We can’t all be obsessed with small pieces of trash, so I want to know: What’s your small thing? What is the thing you do instead of doom-scrolling, instead of reposting and commenting in all caps, instead of muttering under your breath when the neighborhood kids are a bit (or a lot) too loud?

Particularly if your hat is red and says “Make America Great Again,” I want to know what you’re doing — in your real, analog life — to aid in that process.  Not as a challenge, but as an invitation. I’d like to “meet you outside,” as they say, but not to fight. If you want, you can bring your gloves and your little trash grabbers. I’ll bring the bags.

Because although this is certainly not a new idea, it’s clearly the small things that will do it.  Depending on your reading of U.S. history, we could be “Great Again,” or we could become great for the very first time … but it won’t be scrolling, yelling, deportations, budget votes or even presidents who will do it for us.

We’ll do it ourselves, of course. We can start with small things, done regularly and with goodwill, to take care of each other and make meaning in our lives.

(Kate McMullen lives in Olean.)