In cleaning up my corner of the world, I reclaimed my trust in others

When a copy of “The New Yale Book of Quotations” crossed my desk awhile back, I quickly turned to my favorite selection, which came courtesy of the late anthropologist Margaret Mead: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world: indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”

I look up Mead’s most famous observation from time to time – in much the same way, I suppose, that folks once checked their own numbers in the local phone book. In seeing this small nugget of wisdom still in place, I feel that life continues to make sense, and I regain a measure of hope about human destiny.

That hope can seem harder to come by these days, as the headlines bring their usual news about rancor and division. But a recent event in my Louisiana neighborhood reminded me that Mead’s basic trust in the power of community is still on the mark.

I live within a nice stretch of city blocks that’s known for its manicured lawns and oak-shaded streets, though I began to notice on my morning walks that the pavement was tainted by litter. I started picking up what I could, stooping to collect the odd gum wrapper or empty soda can, but my modest efforts seemed too small to do much good. I vaguely felt as if I were trying to bail out the ocean with a beach pail.  

In my hurricane-seasoned part of the world, we know a thing or two about tackling cleanup jobs that, at first glance, look overwhelming. One key truth is that regardless of whatever help outsiders might offer, there’s really no substitute for banding with folks next door.

Which is why, one recent Saturday, I joined my neighbors in picking up litter in and around our local park. It turned out that many others had noticed the litter, too, and a few of them had decided to organize a cleanup day.

I couldn’t help noticing, as we gathered under a small grove of pines, that our group included volunteers who diverged politically. I’d followed some of their social media posts well enough to know how sharply they disagreed on hot-button topics.

But none of that seemed to matter as we gave a few hours to litter patrol. Equipped with yellow vests and garbage bags, we worked our motley harvest: drinking straws, cigarette butts, paper cups, a coat hanger or two, bits of wire, discarded plastic knives and spoons. Lifting a dirty paper napkin from the median of a busy intersection, I spotted a snail, beautiful as a brooch, hidden beneath the refuse.

I didn’t hear anyone discussing politics as we threaded our way through the grass and shrubbery, peering at the ground as if reading the fine print of the landscape. Instead, we talked mostly of children and grandchildren, gardens and birds, favorite novels and TV shows. Soft laughter occasionally broke the trance of our humble work.

Slowly filling our sacks, my neighbors and I reconsecrated what was around us, comforted by the thought that decline is never inevitable. In reclaiming a park, I felt that we were reclaiming something else, too: a sense of trust with those beyond our doorstep, and the idea that we can work together for common good regardless of partisan differences.

After turning in my yellow vest for the day, I signed up for more litter duty the following month. Whether we had changed the world and fulfilled Margaret Mead’s prediction, I can’t say. But on that bright morning, my own small corner of the world, and my trust in its possibility, felt renewed.