There’s something about this season of laden tables, bedecked halls and ho ho hos that can bring to me to my knees with guilt. It used to be I felt embarrassed by all that I had – a kind of survivor’s guilt for having drifted from the shipwreck alive and well, with nice shoes, a great bag, and an entire chest of Scottish sweaters.

Lately though, I’m more troubled by how little I do to save the world.

I haul my carefully-sorted paper and plastic to the curb only to hear on the news about the “massive” cuts we need to make in our emissions if any of us plan on our babies and grandbabies carrying on around here. (I think the word massive is truly off-putting and is enough to stop even a do-gooder cold in her tracks. Sheesh.)

But truly, pictures aren’t all that rosy of late, between the havoc we’re wreaking on the world and on various peoples around the world, not to mention the fact that even here in the heart of Texas we need winter coat drives so kids can get to the school bus and back bundled up. “Something needs to be done,” I say, often enough.

So what do I do? I vote. I give money and raise money. All of our pets were strays, and I pick up litter when I hike. I work ‘for free’ nearly as many hours as I work ‘for pay’, doing my own little shake for the people, places and organizations that could use a hand. My daughters know what it is to hoist a magic-markered sign above a crowd and shout, “Peace, Not War!” My husband now bikes and buses to work, cutting our fuel consumption by half. (But to be fair, this one should really be in his column of the scorecard.) Oh, right. And I recycle. Big whoop.

See, here’s the thing. I can currently define myself as a Pretty Good Citizen (P.G.C.) – not the radical I was born to be. My political science papers in college were thinly-veiled editorial rants. I made scenes in classes and at dinner parties. I marched and signed and picketed and polled. I went to the University of Wisconsin, for pete’s sake.

No wonder that I’m awake at night thinking about trees I should’ve chained myself to, and stands I should’ve stuck ‘til I landed in jail. But instead, I’m a P.G.C. Sigh. At least that leaves me lots of room for improvement.

So it’s this notion that I’m chewing over when I head off to teach yoga in my kindergartner’s classroom this morning. (Teaching yoga at school is one of those P.G. things that I do.)

Each Thursday, as we close our circle, we bow to one another and say, “Namastè.”

Today, M, a little boy open and sweet as a cut peach, asks, “What does that mean in English again?”

“The light in me sees the light in you,” I answer. And suddenly, spontaneously, 15 airy little voices echo me, in chorus.

“The light in me sees the light in you, the light in me sees the light in you, the light in me sees the light in you…”

The sound sweeps the room, the school, the neighborhood, the planet. It feels, well, radical, and for this one short morning I think maybe things aren’t quite so grim after all. In fact, they’re seeming Pretty Good.