My oldies station played “I’d Love to Change the World” by Ten Years After one day when I was taking stock of my life.

The lyrics spoke to me in a way they hadn’t when the song came out in 1971. As a teenager, I saw no disconnect between my idealism and my actions.

Granted, I could have done more to make the world a better place, but, somehow, the conceit of youth protected me from taking too hard a look at myself.

But now? Well, with the clock ticking, Alvin Lee’s confession that he’d love to change the world but didn’t know what to do hit uncomfortably close to home.

The same issues of war, economic inequality, pollution and racism that colored the song still hang over us. How often have I felt so overwhelmed by the enormity of the world’s problems that I’ve done nothing? Too many times to count.

Living smack-dab in the middle of progressive western Massachusetts, I’ve gotten good at talking the talk. Everyone around me shares an interest in social justice. We all talk a good game. But translating talk into action? Well, that’s another matter altogether. Being a do-gooder is optional, and, when life gets busy, it’s easy to live in our own little bubbles.

How – or if – we translate idealism into action varies according to where we are in our lives. After growing up in the counter-cultural 1960s and 1970s, I met Fred, a fellow free spirit, with whom I moved to Northampton to start a family.

Money was tight, but Fred came up with the idea of donating to some charity every year around the holidays. I agreed in theory but wondered about self-sacrifice in practice.

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Weren’t we doing our part to make the world a better place by teaching our kids to be good people? Why not spend our money on something like a whale watch to nurture our kids’ love of nature? Besides, there were so many good causes, it was impossible to choose. Maybe we should just give to public TV because we watched it.

Fred shook his head. “No, I think we should give to something that funds basic needs like food and shelter.”

His words resonated with me. Yes, we could still save for the whale watch and eventually support public TV, but, during the winters of our child-rearing years, donating to local shelters and food pantries became an annual tradition.

Once Fred passed away, I searched for a volunteer gig to give my life new meaning and decided to sign up for a shift at the soup kitchen. All started well with food prep in the kitchen, where a warm and welcoming atmosphere greeted me as a new volunteer. Then I helped serve the meal, and my back started to ache. By the end of the shift, I was in agony.

The experience hit me hard. If only I were a saint like Mother Theresa, I’d labor past pain and exhaustion for the betterment of humankind. Was I just some sorry excuse of a woman who needed to toughen up?

In desperate need of advice, I turned, as always, to the all-knowing Cousin Caryl. “You just need to find something in your wheelhouse,” she said.

The word “wheelhouse” aroused my curiosity. Turns out, this nautical expression originated in the mid-1800s as a term for the area that housed the steering wheel on a steamboat. Since then, its meaning has broadened to encompass all the ways we steer our lives. Cousin Caryl’s wise words helped me get unstuck.

Maybe I could use my skills as a writer to make the world a better place! If Alvin Lee of Ten Years After could do it, so could I.

I started writing for Northampton Neighbors, an organization that came to my rescue when Fred was sick. In addition, I became a sustaining donor for organizations I believe in. It’s easier for me to have small chunks of money automatically siphoned off from my checking account each month than to make an annual donation.

My two-pronged approach of using both my talents and my wallet is one that we can all use if we’re feeling at an impasse. We can forgo our fancy lattes once a month for the greater good.

Then again, maybe we don’t even have to sacrifice our little pleasures.

Perhaps, when get those cravings for Starbucks, we can whip up our own indulgences using coffee, frothed milk, and pumpkin pie spice. It’s worth a try.

Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence and is working on a collection of essays, “Rock On: A Baby Boomer’s Playlist for Life after Loss.” Reach her at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.