It has been a quiet morning. Soon, I will begin going to an office every weekday, but not today. Today I have been contemplating what makes life worth living.

After all, it’s easy to ask: What’s the point? If even highly successful people can wonder if their life has meaning, what about the rest of us?

I spent the morning reading a series of articles and essays, dipping into my guilty-pleasure romance novel, and looking at my own many decades of life.

And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the answer isn’t earth shattering. Not even worthy of a headline. (Although I imagine there are many self-help books touting it.)

My life has meaning because I am not alone. Because I am in relationship with individuals, with families, and with communities large and small.

My life has meaning because today I celebrate Israel’s Independence Day, Yom HaAtzmaut. I have never lived there and never will, but I share in the joy and hope the tiny nation represents.

My life has meaning because my work as a rabbi touches other people’s lives, in times of celebration and times of mourning. Yesterday, I drove three hours each way to officiate at the funeral of a man I never met, because the family’s rabbi moved away last week.

My life has meaning because as a teacher, I interact with people, young and old. They are curious, and they want to learn from me and with me.

My life has meaning because today I texted with the mother of a bar mitzvah student. I’m his tutor, his bar mitzvah is scheduled for this weekend, and he suddenly took ill. Together, his mom and I have supported him and each other, as he works towards this momentous event.

My life has meaning because at the grocery store I stop to chat with an elderly cashier who always has a smile and a good word to share. His wife died last winter, and he’s started using a walker. During Covid, when everyone’s work hours were severely curtailed, he tried to get as much work as he could, to pay for her medication. One day I quietly gave him a $100 gift card to the store, something I continue to do now and then.

The Israeli historian Moti Zeira spoke recently about Kibbutz Nir Or, which was decimated in the October 7 attack on Israel. He was asked why the community should be rebuilt, and said this: “As the world becomes more atomized, more capitalist—in the sense that everyone is preoccupied with themselves, in a way that tramples my soul—the idea that together is better than alone becomes more and more clear.”

My life has meaning because I am part of something that defies definition — community.

I am not powerful. I cannot make the world a better place for all. But I can, in my own small way, make a difference. I can be part of something larger than myself.

So can you. You too are a member of many communities. Where you worship. Your neighborhood. Your friends. Your workplace. Your gym. Your kids’ school.

In the larger scheme of things, do our little efforts in our tiny communities matter? I will be honest: In the moments that I am wracked with despair, I am not certain. The world’s ills are huge, and I am just one person, small and powerless.

But I am not alone.