I keep having small aha moments that all add up to the same big idea: making my own tiny difference in the world leaves me feeling empowered, while simultaneously chipping away at the problems that surround me.

While my little acts won’t actually fix anything on their own, they do add up to make a cumulative difference. It makes me feel like I’m doing the emotional equivalent of erasing my carbon footprint on the planet. My small gestures of kindness may not leave the physical earth neutral or better for my having existed, but I think they offer an aura of goodness that gives hope to those in need of it.

Today’s version of the realization came from a visit with my parents. My dad is on day three of his recovery from double knee replacement surgery. Because I was there when he took his first labored steps, I am very aware of just how brutal the recovery is and will continue to be for the next few weeks. Seriously. Dad made the Winter Warlock from the old school Christmas cartoon The Year without a Santa Claus look like famous sprinter Jesse Owens. “Put one foot in front of the other, and soon you’ll be walking out the do-ooo-oor.” Easy for you to say, Kris Kringle.  

Watching Dad grimace made me feel so powerless. Since I can’t heal wounds or even medicate him into oblivion, what could I possibly do to ease his burdens? I hated feeling so useless to him.  

But then I realized that simply by being a loving face during this difficult time I was doing something important for him. With my mom, my brother and me around him, he knew he wasn’t going to be alone in his struggles. Then I did simple things like bringing my parents some groceries and picking up Dad’s prescriptions. Today I dropped by for another few hours to bring lunch and visit, to break up the monotony of his bed-to-chair rotation.  

Even though I didn’t fix anything, I did make a difference. My dad’s recovery is better for my involvement in it. I can’t fix knees, but I can enhance his morale to have an impact on his drive to heal. Whether he’s back to his beloved golf game a day or an hour sooner because of my efforts, I know I am making a difference.  

It makes me think about all the issues we have in our lives—whether they be in our jobs, neighborhoods or family dynamics. The daunting problems there may be too big for us to conquer as individuals, but what can each of us do to bring ourselves that sense of empowerment while making an impact for positive change.  

It’s a New Year… what can you do to make the burdens around you a little lighter?

We often hear that happiness is a choice, but I think we need to remember that it’s an active one. As much as we want it to be as simple as the first few questions on the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? game show, it just isn’t.

Happiness is:

Who wouldn’t see happiness to be a choice when you put it like that? The reality, however, is that it’s complicated. And we will be tested about this pro-choice stance on a near daily basis.

What makes it so complex is that happiness usually shows up when we’re interacting with others. This means that the more people we surround ourselves with, the more connected we are and the more likely we are to experience a rich, rewarding life. But when we care about a lot of people, we need to share in their hardship—whether it’s illness, death or serious disappointment. It obviously isn’t easy to feel happy when people we love are suffering.

When you couple that with the very grown-up decision to be informed about issues and events concerning our community and the world at large, choosing happiness can’t ever be an accident. We know too much and care about too many people to make it a passive reaction.

Yet we must choose happiness anyway.

This year I have made the choice to be more informed about my city by participating in the Community Leadership San Jose program, sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. In addition to giving the participants a chance to connect with leaders from a variety of fields and backgrounds, we get the chance to see the behind-the-scenes operations of our city.

The first meeting gave us the opportunity to meet with the Mayor’s office and city council leaders, and also included a tour of the city through the eyes of the redevelopment and transit agencies. Though I was interested enough in the subject matter as the day started, I walked away feeling thoroughly inspired by the many articulate, passionate and knowledgeable people who are working to make sure San Jose grows in sensible ways, while still honoring its history and retaining its charm.

If our first meeting was inspiring, the second was life changing. Our group spent the morning at the San Jose Police Department training site, participating in simulations that made each one of us realize how fast an officer must process and respond to volatile situations. Then, we spent the afternoon visiting the county jail. My takeaway there was that it’s impossible not to be changed when standing just twenty feet from the hardened faces of murderers. To hear how these prisoners got there and how likely they are to keep coming back was nothing short of haunting.

I went home that night feeling overwhelmed by the realities that make some people feel hopeless about their future. While I could see that the solution lies in supporting families to raise their children to value education and eschew violence, I still had no idea how to actually do that.

The next morning I received a call from a friend who informed me that a student at our daughters’ high school had taken his own life. It felt like a piling on of despair. How could such a young man not see a future for himself?

Then it occurred to me that the prisoners and this young man had hopelessness in common. And it was so easy to see how the news of their suffering could create a spiral effect on everyone around them, if we let it.

When these events happen, it is obviously the family and friends who suffer most when accepting they will never see their loved one again, either because of death or a life sentence. But the reality is that we strangers suffer too. For every time we hear of a tragic loss, we lose a little bit more of our optimism and sense of hope.

It’s easy for me to think that because I don’t have a background in mental health, there is nothing I can do to help. But doing nothing but be sad about it feels so powerless, and sets up tall hurdles to my choosing of happiness.

As simplistic as it sounds, I think it’s essential that we all do our part to gather in celebration ten times more often than we gather to grieve. By bringing lightness to the heavy issues that circle over us, we create hope as we create deeper connections. And people who feel connected and hopeful don’t want to squander away their lives.

To do this, we need to actively plan for joy, particularly when we don’t feel like it. This holiday season, put out those decorations that add light to a short winter day. Make that extra effort to invite family, friends or neighbors over for a visit. Watch schmaltzy movies that make you smile. It will not only put you in the holiday spirit, but it will be a declaration to those around you that you are actively making your choice.

I’ve discovered a fun new hobby in revisiting some memories of my youth through the pop culture markers that framed them. Whether these memories are triggered by old songs, movies, television programs or books, it’s fascinating to take them in again a decade or two since they were the must see, hear, or read of their time.  

It all started when I sat down to watch “The Wizard of Oz” and came away with a whole new take on the Hollywood classic. And who would expect to find any surprises when viewing a movie for the umpteenth time? Yet because my previous viewings of the film all took place when I was a child, I suppose I can chalk the reaction up to age.  

The thing that struck me was that, back then, it was the Wicked Witch of the West and the flying monkeys who captured my imagination—most likely because they scared the bejesus out of me. Now, though, it’s The Wizard who’s become the one I think of when trying to fall asleep at night.   There’s just something that speaks to middle-aged me about the moment The Wizard is revealed to be an average man instead of the fearsome, legendary power monger he’d been billed to be.

Isn’t it funny what 30 years of perspective can do to a girl?  

I have no doubt that my first sighting of The Wizard – the moment after he was stripped of his curtain – was to laugh out loud at the sad little man before me. Now I see a mere mortal just trying to live up to the hype that surrounds him.  

I find this so interesting because I think we all have our wizards. They are the people we have just enough distance from to build up into characters even greater than what they portray in their resumes and bios. Sure, there are some real titans, like Oprah and Steve Jobs, who create something as close to Oz as we munchkins could imagine. But I am thinking about the people accessible enough to us that we might see them around town.  

I recently had the opportunity to meet one of my wizards face to face. Her name is Ivory Madison and she is the founder and CEO of the Red Room, a social networking website I belong to that connects readers and writers. In the first year I blogged at the site, I regarded her with nothing short of awe. Her bio sat below her headshot and said far more than the obvious: “Not just a pretty face.”  

Prior to founding the worldwide Red Room website, Ivory founded a “brick and mortar” writers’ society that’s regarded as part of San Francisco’s literary landscape. While managing her new venture, she also guest lectures at Stanford on the subject of new media. She’s also an attorney and accomplished jazz singer. And just to round things out, she has a multi-book contract with DC Comics to publish graphic novels with a feminist superhero protagonist.  

To say that I would never have reached out to this woman is an understatement. It would have never actually even occurred to me to do so. I saw her accomplishments and subconsciously compared them to the lowlights of my own and felt very, very inferior.  

As fate would have it -- after a year of being intimidated from afar -- I had the unique opportunity to be mentored by Ivory for an upcoming public reading at Litquake, San Francisco’s annual literary festival.  

This, of course, meant that I, the Cowardly Lion, would have to follow the yellow brick road up Highway 101 to meet her. My fear, of course, was that she’d look me in the eye and be disgusted by my lack of courage. Or, worse yet, deem my writing unworthy of her time.  

Determined to never say no to a growth opportunity, I rolled on my Clinical Strength Secret antiperspirant and hit the road. I might have even breathed into a paper bag before knocking on the door, but I will not confirm this so as to keep some semblance of dignity. Ivory opened the door. And you know what? The minute she did, she left the wizard’s booth I’d built for her in my mind.  

But unlike the sad little man I first saw unveiled in the movie, I met a generous and genuine flesh-and-blood woman whom I, myself, had made into a wizard. This woman gave me some specific tips that improved my public reading and was utterly lovely to spend time with. But the real lesson she taught me was obviously even bigger.  

The experience makes me wonder how many opportunities we all miss out on by building other people up while taking ourselves down. How many wizards do we keep at an arm’s distance who could help us grow as colleagues, neighbors or friends?  

Here’s to unmasking those wizards and making the most out of this life.

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This column originally appeared in the Times Media newspapers serving Almaden, Cambrian, Willow Glen, Campbell and Evergreen.

I’ve always been a holiday kind of girl. I just love the good excuse to step away from the same old, same old and embrace the reason to feel festive. Yes, I realize that more evolved beings don’t need Hallmark to tell them when to be joyful. But the reality is that as much as I love fun, it often feels like the most optional item on my to-do list. 

What hit me recently is that I am much more deliberate about my displays of spirit than I used to be when I was younger. Finding nooks in my home to adorn throughout the year with pumpkins, turkeys, snowmen, lace hearts and bunnies, used to be an automatic. If the calendar read October 1^st, it was time to dig out the witches from storage. On November 1^st, it was the pilgrims’ turn to make their pilgrimage to my tabletop. Eventually the bunnies would hop to their turn in the spotlight. It was a given.  

And now it isn’t.  

I feel as though I have hit an age when many people around me – and myself included – are starting to feel the burdens of time. We have full days with the demands of both work and family, and it so tempting to go insular. To cut out the extraneous.  

Recognizing this makes me feel sad. And for a gal who was voted “Most School Spirit” in junior high and high school, it’s just plain wrong.  So, although my decorating sometimes feels a little forced to the now middle-aged me, I know that not decorating would be an acceptance that I’d lost my spirit. And that is unacceptable.  

As I’ve been walking my dog on these crisp fall mornings of late, this realization makes me see the pumpkins and witches that some of my neighbors put out in a new light. Their ghouls and goblins that hang from their porch are now a symbol to me that the people within are not only still open to joy, but actively plan for it.  

I hope you will, too.

I thought I'd share a thrilling (yet intimidating) moment I had last weekend. Though many of you who read this blog may not be writers, I am hoping you can relate to this experience as it applies to your own hopes and aspirations.

I was invited to do a live reading at Litquake, San Francisco's annual literary festival. Now, granted, the event I participated in during this week-long celebration was titled "Barely Published Authors." I was, indeed, barely invited, but my foot was in the door of this prestigious event. It was such a thrill!

Many of you know I have been writing for ten years with the loftiest of goals and dreams. Fortunately for my family and friends, I finally came to terms with the fact that there is no quick ticket to any such fame or fortune. The rejection and dismay I felt about this initially did not make me a delight to be around. (Thank God my husband doesn't blog or he might out that as the biggest euphemism since the coining of the term "gentlemen's club.")

After many tears and lapses in writing, I eventually discovered that writing is too big a part of who I am to give it up. So I plugged along and made small steps forward that I truly appreciate now because they are a testament to my perseverance.

This makes me wonder what the rest of you may have given up too soon that is an essential part of who you are. I hope you'll consider giving your passion another chance. Not because either of us will likely retire from these pursuits, but because they allow us to dream and wake up with hope and a sense of purpose.

Here's to your passion!