What good am I?

 What are the small, precious joys of life? 

My small dog rests his head on my leg as his weary eyes flutter closed. Stepping out of the car last night, snowflakes coasted down from the sky. When I awoke, they were gone, leaving no trace of their presence. Were they only for me? Who else watched them fall at 3 in the morning? 

​I think of these things now as a reprieve. 

At times, I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the other things happening in the world--the people who are hurting, the earth that is burning, the threat of destruction. Sitting in a coffee shop with the paper laid out before me, I feel helpless. What can I really do?

I dreamed last night that I cut off all of my hair. But did I feel any better? The realm of that which I can control is so small. 

What good are the snowflakes? What good am I?