The phalanx of formidable earthmovers parked in front of the old Kipling cinema days before any demolition began. Whenever we passed the captivating sight, my children reminded me that they wanted to watch the deconstruction.  So, each day, on the way—well, out of the way—to my son’s preschool, we’d check to see if the annihilation had begun. One much anticipated day we were treated to the start of the delightful dance of the excavators. We returned each weekday morning until the utterly charmless building became a Brattleboro memory.

Tyler Excavation’s exceedingly tidy, efficient work enthralled me. My own main day job—parenting—is never tidy, nor is it efficient. And unlike the drivers of these colossal machines, my talents are not nearly so readily apparent—at least to me. It’s tough being a parent when you tend towards perfectionism. You focus on daily defeats: My kids enjoy teasing each other so much that I feel like I’m watching Elizabethan bear baiting. You forget to celebrate victories: Both my children know the basics of making bread and cleaning a toilet—not simultaneously, of course.  And although at times I feel like I live with miniature versions of Robert Mugabe and Ratco Mladić, they both can tell a joke and demonstrate love and empathy towards one another. Really, what more could I want? Turns out, a lot.

I want my daily parenting choreography to look more like the Russian Bolshoi Ballet—full of grace and inspiration—and less like Australia’s contemporary dance troupe called Chunky Move. In a Chunky Move piece, you are likely to see lights flashing incongruently while someone writhes on the floor—not unlike bedtime at our house.  It is the surreal aspect of parenting that I did not anticipate. Exactly how does one maintain lucidity when your 2-year-old shrieks for no apparent reason while your 5-year-old flips out because you bought the wrong kind of oat cereal? (Never mind that this was the only brand he would eat for the last 5 months; now it is cereal non grata in the house.) I’m not alone in feeling like the sanity train left the station a long time ago.

A new Gallup poll—in which 60,000 U.S. women were interviewed—indicates that stay-at-home moms report more depression, anger, and sadness than moms employed outside the home. They are also more likely to describe themselves as “struggling” and less likely to say they are “thriving.” Stay-at-home moms are also less likely to report that they “learned something new today.”  As a friend of mine, who holds a doctorate in psychology, says: “When I was at home with the kids, I felt like I was earning a PhD in poop. It was brutal.”

The poll only surveyed stay-at-home moms, but several candid conversations I’ve had with two stay-at-home dads suggest that they experience the same emotional struggles as their female counterparts. Parenting is arduous and often lonely. Despite our best efforts, many of us still feel like we’re not doing a very good job. When we’re not feeling guilty about that or wishing we had superhuman powers, we often feel like we’re trapped in an Edvard Munch tableau. We admonish ourselves for feeling what we feel; we ought to be ever grateful for the opportunity to be home with our children. And I am grateful; I recognize that for many families neither parent has the luxury of staying home. But there’s a certain weird quality to stay-at-home parenting that challenges rationality.

I once attended a friend’s modern dance performance in which the troupe engaged in a type of dance move that she called “sloughing.” Like a flake of dead skin peeling from a body, one dancer comes into contact with another one and then “sloughs” off onto the floor. The dance piece was, frankly, kind of weird. Although it made a big impression at the time—not entirely positive, mind you—I secreted it away in some nether region of the brain. There it stayed for 17 years.  But recently I found myself mining this dormant memory when my incensed daughter adhered herself to my leg so that I couldn’t walk and then slid down my appendage as if it were a firefighter’s pole. I imagined us as participants in a modern dance performance—and not actually part of a frustrating and odd parenting moment. Somehow this made the whole incident more bearable.

We continue to watch the site preparation for the new Aldi supermarket. As we enjoy the dance of the excavators each day, I think of our own building project. My kids and I are constructing a home together in which my love for them and their interests must blend with my desperate need to learn something new. This is why I sit at the construction site for a few minutes each morning and ponder how the whole marvelous, orderly project fits together.

Our own choreography is often awkward and is anything but straightforward. It careens towards bizarre in its banal repetition and is often coupled with my kids’ unpredictable, frenzied outbursts of indignation. But this dance we do—full of chunky and clunky movements—has its own grace: an inimitable beauty found in the wonder of the ordinary.

Two images sit with me as I write I write this: A woman covered by a blue and white prayer shawl surrounded by angry faces. A woman alone in a spotlight with her clarinet.

Israeli born New Yorker Anat Cohen—named best jazz clarinetist for the last 6 years by the jazz music writers association—is a virtuoso on both clarinet and saxophone. No other jazz clarinetist comes close to garnering the recognition she does. In music critics’ polls she often receives more than double the votes of her nearest rival. Jack Massarik of the London Evening Standard said recently that her tone, technique and fluency are so good that she deserves comparisons to jazz clarinet legends Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw. If you’ve written off jazz clarinet, as I had—partly due to Woody Allen’s mediocre turns on the instrument—it is time to give it another listen.

Although more than talented enough to usher in a new era of swing, Cohen embraces many styles and enthralls audiences simply by being, in the words of Newport Jazz Festival jury member Danny Melnick, “one of the most expressive and joyful musicians in the world.” Whether playing Brazilian choro (what she calls Brazilian “ragtime”) or American blues, Cohen—who won the prestigious Paul Acket award this year— displays great artistry and emotional connection to her music. Jean Jacques Goron, the head of the foundation that sponsors the Acket award, says of Cohen’s playing, “Her sound is as powerful as it is sensual, hitting a captivating groove with interpretations that express a profound tenderness.” She is deeply moved by the music and adeptly conveys her emotional understanding of it to her audience.

Cohen dazzled NY Times music critic Joe Nocera this May when he “discovered” her at a New York club playing Brazilian music on saxophone and clarinet. (I guess he missed all her consecutive Downbeat awards.) What took his breath away—repeatedly—that night was Cohen’s ability to “evoke infectious joy” in the upper register and “conjure deep, soulful melancholy” with the low notes. He also marveled that her improvisations were amazingly fast yet crystal clear.  You can see what he means; there are many excellent Anat Cohen clips to check out on YouTube. If you prefer slow and sultry to frenetic jazz, watch her clips of La Vie En Rose or Cry Me A River; they’re simply gorgeous.

Although remarkably gifted, Cohen is part of a sizable and influential wave of young, talented Israelis reinvigorating that uniquely American genre, jazz. And there are as many theories as to why this is so as there are talented Israeli jazz musicians. Some cite the fact that Israel has a long-standing relationship with Berklee School of Music in Boston, which has provided a conduit for the free-flow of musical ideas between the two nations. Others point to Israel’s excellent educational system and its embrace of jazz training for its young musicians.

But Anat Cohen’s brother—trumpeter Avishai Cohen—believes it has more to do with Israel’s unpopular presence in the Middle East and its immigrants who arrive from all corners of the earth. He recently told Andrew Gilbert of JazzTimes that jazz is an ideal outlet for people who go to sleep at night worrying if they’ll wake up in the morning. “With all the tension, it drives people a little more to the edge, as far as saying what you want to say,” Cohen explained. And their rich and diverse cultural backgrounds make a marvelous mélange:  Moroccan grooves blend with Eastern European influences.

It is a relief that something overwhelmingly positive can come out of the tension and tumult in the Middle East. The news out of Israel is always complicated and, frequently, disheartening.

This spring—just as I became interested in Cohen’s great skill and flair—I also followed the story of the Women of the Wall in Jerusalem. This Jewish women’s liberal religious group’s attempts to pray at the Western Wall have been met by thousands of ultra-Orthodox Jews, some of whom hurl insults, catcalls and even large objects at them. Rabbi Uri Regev, the founder of Hiddush, an Israeli group that advocates for religious freedom and equality said of the clashes, “We are looking at a process in which the public disdain with the way religion and state matters have occurred in Israel has reached a peak.”

The issue isn’t just boiling over into conflict within Israel. Jodi Rudoren, of the NY Times, notes that the arrests of women wearing prayer shawls at the wall ignited protests from Jews living abroad. The unorthodoxy of these women insults the religious and cultural sensibilities of a small but vociferous group in Israel. But to these women and many other Jews, their actions are about being true to themselves and their relationship with God. The world is too small and interdependent for an orthodoxy of exclusivity.

It would have been highly unorthodox for Anat Cohen, a woman, to play jazz clarinet during the era of Benny Goodman. And it is currently unorthodox for her to embrace clarinet at a time when the instrument is out of fashion and uncool in the jazz world. But it is her musical truth and her path. She told Nocera recently, “When I play clarinet I am 100 percent myself. It is as if it is part of my body.” I know I’m not the only one who thanks the universe for this divine connection.

I felt certain my neighbors would think I’d replaced my lawn with a wheat crop. It is Vermont, after all, and the idea not so very farfetched. My embarrassingly tall grass had gone to seed, and my earnest people-powered mower was no match for the savannah. April had been so dry and then May suddenly so very wet that I roundly neglected the mowing. With a break in the rain came the resolve that it was time to do battle. But my humble reel mower literally couldn’t cut it.

I headed up the hill to visit my neighbors who live by the succulent mulberry tree. They had a mower to lend, but it was notoriously unreliable. My neighbor explained the glitches, crossed her fingers, and bid us good luck.

I fired it up as my son watched from his perch in a pine tree. Two rows later, the engine quit. Despite my insistent tugging on its frayed cord, it resisted starting. When it did finally roar back to life, it wouldn’t shut off. The safety bar intended to force an automatic shutdown was on the blink. We trudged back up the hill to return the dicey device.

Another neighbor was happy to loan us her earnest battery-operated mower. She’d traded in her loud gas-powered one for this sleek, sexy, high tech green mower. She simply pushed a button to start it! Amazingly quiet and lightweight, it was quite a machine. I was off to tame my wild grasslands—with a mower I could feel sanctimonious about.  Two gorgeous sweeps later, it lost all power: dead battery.

I considered my lawn. It now looked like a grass maze designed for the neighborhood kids.  I needed another mower, another neighbor.

Our new neighbors in the red house were happy to oblige and offered me their reel mower. I shook my head: “Grass is too high.” “Scissors?” she joked. I admitted that it just might come to that. She gestured across the street: “He’s always willing to loan out his mower.” But he wasn’t home, so I trudged home to use my mower, much like I would a rolling pin. If I couldn’t cut the grass, at least I could flatten it and make it less obtrusive.

As I tussled with my mower and felt my biceps twinge from the effort, a neighbor called from her car, “He’s home now! You could ask about the mower!” Hallelujah! I ditched the oversized rolling pin and dashed to secure yet another mower.

A dinosaur of a mower, its grass bag had gone missing years ago, and it weighed about as much as a stegasaurus. But it worked! I grinned as it gobbled. I was so thrilled; I went on to mow my next-door-neighbor’s expansive lawn. A stay-at-home dad, he very nearly cried when he returned home, son in his arms, and gazed upon my work.  He called out, “I can’t thank you enough! You just gave me back my day tomorrow!”

Just recently, I’d frantically emailed him when we’d headed to New York and had forgotten to turn off our coffee maker. He turned it off for us, but long after the pot was safely disarmed, we continued to receive inquiries from other neighbors about the overheating coffee maker situation. We have a wonderful neighborhood.

I didn’t want to move into this neighborhood; in fact, I swore I wouldn’t move here. Six years ago it was decidedly rough around the edges. But there weren’t many houses on the market, and it was close to downtown.  I was pregnant with our first child and wanted to feel more settled; I didn’t want to rent anymore. And—cardinal sin for any homebuyer—we fell in love with the house. Its beautiful, unpainted turn-of-the-century woodwork was stunning, as were its pristine maple floors. We were goners. But I cried a lot that first year. The street noise drove me to distraction, and I feared our house would never really feel like home.

But as grass clippings spewed all over me that day, I realized that—surprisingly—I love my neighborhood. Whether we’re feeding each other’s pets, gathering a neighbor’s maple sap so it doesn’t go to waste while she’s away, looking for missing cats, bringing in mail, providing meals when someone dies or is born, or just leaning over our fence to chat, I feel a kinship with these folks.

Howard Blackson of Placemakers—an influential and successful urban planning firm—articulates what he views as the critical 5 C’s of what makes a neighborhood great: complete, compact, connected, complex and convivial. Though I don’t disagree with the importance of all these components, first and foremost, a neighborhood—regardless of its connection to transit lines or close proximity to good coffee and cozy gathering spots—must be caring. And altruism, it turns out, is contagious.

In a first of its kind study completed by researchers at UCLA and University of Cambridge and University of Plymouth in the U.K., researchers found that watching someone help another person triggers that same desire in us. Says lead researcher Simone Schnall of Cambridge, “When you feel this sense of moral ‘elevation’ not only do you say you want to be a better person and help others, but you actually do when the opportunity presents itself.” I’ve seen this at work in my own neighborhood.

As I headed in to start dinner after my marathon session of searching for mowers, I heard the sound of another mower in our backyard. Our mulberry neighbors, not knowing we’d found a working mower, had jerry-rigged their finicky mower and returned prepared to mow our lawn themselves!

I arrived at my college orientation with my hair styled in a modest Mohawk—if there is such a thing—and sporting a shirt and pants that more than clashed.  A friend told me later that she took one look at me on that fall day and realized I was the sort of person her mother had warned her against befriending. The other gal in our tight threesome recalled that she’d seen me striding around campus in my aqua pants, safety pins, and black boots and approached me to inquire what was in my Walkman. On the spot she decided that anyone who dressed like the Sex Pistols but listened to Cat Stevens was someone she needed in her life.

We were a funny trio. One buddy hailed from the suburbs of Chicago but had landed at college fresh from a do-gooder program in rural Mexico. She sported somewhat grungy peasant shawls and drank cheap tequila. The other—originally from New York but now Israeli—wore scarves favored by Palestinians and had a bad pot habit. I marveled that we clicked; our childhood experiences were markedly different. Our experiences in college were different too. I thrived in that academic environment where my equally able friends floundered. Our divergent experiences had everything to do with “readiness” for college but nothing to do with economics.

For many students, regardless of economic status and background, college can be a source of frustration and disappointment. It is often demoralizing for those students who would prefer to work with their hands, and can be a waste of money for directionless ones. I remember one particular student whose self-esteem endured a daily drubbing; academic work was extremely laborious for him. He knew by 8^th grade that he wanted to run his own business, and he dreaded an extended future filled with term papers and exams. His affluent parents found it difficult to honor the many other gifts their son had—talents that did not readily emerge within the confines of an elite classroom. He was headed to college no matter his desires. Luckily, his parents had the financial and logistical resources to scaffold his academic career. Many students attempting college are not so fortunate.

Certainly students should be encouraged to expand their ideas of what’s possible for them. But we must not send the message that there is only one legitimate, acceptable path. Nurturing varied talents and sincerely allowing students to play to their strengths demonstrates that we value other choices in addition to the college route.

Although each student is unique, we often ignore the extent to which class is a potent societal connecter and divider. I had the grades to get into one of the best colleges in the country, but my public school experience did not prepare me for the wealth disparity on display there. I recall the exact moment when I understood my family’s economic place in the world. While telling the story of driving my date to the prom in my dad’s snazzy new car, one very affluent college teammate—upon hearing I drove a Mercury Cougar—interjected, “Oh, I thought you meant a really nice car.”  But if I felt out of place, my discomfort was slight compared to the struggles of fellow undergrads for whom a new car of any type was out of the question.

New York Times reporter Jason DeParle highlights the struggles of three poor Galveston, TX students who desperately sought —in their words—to “get off the island” by attending college. His revealing profile, “For Poor, Leap to College Often Ends in a Hard Fall,” describes the many impediments to low-income students finishing college: crushing debt; little guidance from family or school officials; no safety net when things go wrong; internal guilt over spending scant family money on education; and intense employment commitments that eat up precious study time.

There are also unanticipated obstacles. “Under-matching”—when a student chooses a college that is close to home instead of targeting the very best they can attend—can be perilous because top-tier schools have the best graduation rates for students-at-risk. The Brookings Institution’s Matthew Chingos explains why: “There are higher expectations, more resources and more stigma to dropping out.”

Poor students also have an advocacy disadvantage. More moneyed parents feel entitled and empowered to contact school officials when their children stumble.  Not so for low-income parents says Annette Lareau, a sociologist at the University of Pennsylvania: “Middle-class students get the sense the institution will respond to them. Working-class and poor students don’t experience that.” They handle their struggles alone, and consequently their graduation rates are abysmal.

Students in the bottom quarter of incomes rarely graduate from four-year colleges; DePerle puts the figure at only 15%. Getting poor students to college is only a small—and often hollow—victory. Half drop out and face the daunting task of paying off staggering debt without a degree in hand.

Without question, if low-income students are to complete their degrees, colleges must have more effective systems to support them. Any student with the smarts, talent, drive and desire ought to be able to attend college and complete a degree. But we must not alienate those students with other valid dreams for themselves. A four-year college can help students lift themselves out of poverty, but we must admit that this is currently true for only a very small number of low-income students.

Rather than pushing more students to finish four years of college immediately after high school, we should listen carefully to their aspirations and help them match their post-high school education to those ambitions—even if they’re sporting aqua pants and a Mohawk.

I often joke that my friend is the “Repo Mom.” She serves as board treasurer for a local non-profit and must constantly hound people to pay their bills. This vital service to the organization is not exactly a laugh riot. She is not paid for this volunteer gig—and is a harried mom of three. But she does the work because we have a dearth of volunteers.  Our county’s many non-profits and town boards perpetually need board members. This inverse game of musical chairs—too many seats, not enough bottoms to fill them—is relentless. But despite our population stagnation in Windham County, there are still plenty of residents who could volunteer, but choose not to.

Another friend’s recent experience reminded me why this may be so. He recounted a board meeting in which citizens came to complain to—and harass—the board about a recent decision. One particularly indignant and ill-informed woman accused the board of malfeasance. When provided accurate information, she refused to accept it.  Her accusatory comments left the board members feeling discouraged and angry. I imagine thought bubbles floated above weary heads: Why, exactly, am I doing this? Did I volunteer for this torture?

As a former social studies teacher (and the child of a grateful immigrant), I vigorously embrace civic involvement. To create a more just, lovely, and dynamic world, we must involve ourselves in local politics and the important decision-making of local nonprofit boards. Whether advocating for new sidewalks, shoring up the grand list, or raising funds for an arts organization, community members make the whole system go.  But not every issue requires micromanagement or critical oversight. And starting a conversation from a place of distrust of others is not productive.

A hefty segment of Windham County’s residents lives in a counterculture marked by proud distrust of government. But distrust of others’ intentions—obviously—is not unique to Brattleboro.  A poll from the Pew Research Center revealed a curious twist about Americans’ distrust of their leaders: Even as more Americans distrust government, they want government to do more for them. We want action, but when that action veers—even slightly—from our own deeply held beliefs, we feel anxiety, fear and distrust. We question the intentions of those who appear to have some power or control. And we often make an instant decision about whom we can trust simply based on an individual’s face.

Alexander Todorov and Nikolaas Oosterhof—two Princeton psychology researchers—study the many messages conveyed by one’s face. They developed a computer program that pinpoints which specific characteristics of the human face lead others to interpret a person as trustworthy or fearsome. Todorov explains, “Humans seem to be wired to look to faces to understand the person’s intentions…People are always asking themselves, ‘Does this person have good or bad intentions?” The horizontal plane that contains the eyes, nose and mouth conveys an enormous amount of information—deserved or not—about an individual’s perceived trustworthiness.

Our split-second judgments about whether a person can be approached or should be avoided appear to boil down to about a dozen facial characteristics. U-shaped mouths and eyes that form a surprised look instill trust in others; a face with the edges of the mouth curled down and eyebrows that point down at the center is deemed untrustworthy.  You can’t easily change your facial characteristics, but you can make yourself more approachable without having to resort to plastic surgery. Todorov and Oosterhof determined that just changing your facial expressions—to be more open and less threatening—has a similar, positive impact on your interactions with the public.

The questions we ask during meetings can also shift tense dynamics. Assistant professor of organizational behavior at Cornell Michele Williams—who studies trust in the workplace—asserts that “perspective taking” can readily rebuild trust when there is tension between colleagues. It can be as simple as asking the question, “You seem concerned about something.” This kind of guileless question, Williams contends, “generates positive emotions in others and motivates trust, information sharing, cooperation, learning and flexible responses.” She stresses that we often assume we know the roots of someone’s distrust, but we are usually wrong. Perspective taking helps determine whether frustration and distrust are rooted in the particular issue being presented or if it is actually spillover from other areas of one’s life.

Board members can work to mitigate suspicion from critics, but critics must  endeavor to keep conversations civil and productive. When discourse at public meetings is unnecessarily based in fear and mistrust, we need to name it and confront it. If we want citizens to continue to serve, we all have an obligation to ensure that these often thankless positions do not become pure agony.

I’m reminded of the brilliant blue robin’s egg I found while running last week. I still had two more miles to go, but I desperately wanted to carry it home to show my children. I needed to adjust my grip constantly to honor its fragility—and not squash it—while simultaneously grasping tightly enough so as not to drop my precious find.  In public meetings we must allow similar freedom of thought while maintaining strong boundaries and taking care not to crush the process. It is a tricky maneuver but it can be done.

My children examined the intact robin’s egg before breakfast that morning.

I am one of those odd ducks who doesn’t revel in springtime. I have a perverse reverse seasonal affective disorder; as my winter-phobic friends rejoice at the coming of tender buds and trilling birds, I dread the approaching stifling heat and endless days. Only recently have I admitted that springtime gives me the blues.  It is generally my role to be funny, so it is hard to let myself feel low.

My grandfather, Leo Bálint was murdered in the springtime of 1945. Mauthausen—the Austrian concentration camp where he died—was the last camp liberated by the Allies that May. If troops had arrived just a few weeks earlier, our family history, and by extension, my emotional life, might be quite different. The Holocaust lives on in our psyches in peculiar and unexpected ways. The spring makes me sad: It is tough to rejoice in humanity when on a spring day all those years ago so many were cut down amidst unfathomable inhumanity.

Searching for comfort, I recently re-read Simon Wiesenthal’s The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness. Wiesenthal—famed writer, Holocaust survivor, and Nazi hunter—tells a chilling tale. While imprisoned in a concentration camp, Wiesenthal was pulled from his work detail to sit by the bedside of a dying SS soldier who sought to confess his disgusting crimes to someone Jewish. Wiesenthal listened to the young soldier’s horrific confession, and then endured the soldier’s desperate plea for forgiveness: “I know that what I am asking is almost too much for you but without your answer I cannot die in peace.” Wiesenthal resolves that despite his compassion for the man’s emotional and psychological suffering, he cannot forgive him on behalf of those who were murdered. He leaves in silence, but then spends years questioning—and encouraging others to speculate—whether he made the correct choice.

Whether Wiesenthal did the right thing in that abject, otherworldly moment—although an absorbing political, religious and philosophical discussion—is not what holds my interest. The issue is so weighty, the context so wretched, that I have no answer but that Wiesenthal showed more humanity by witnessing this man’s confession than was deserved. As renowned philosophy professor Herbert Marcuse said, “If, God forbid, I should ever be in a similar situation I could only hope that I would have the strength to act in a similar fashion. I am afraid I might not.” Marcuse asserts that listening to his confession itself was an act that confirmed a shared humanity. This acknowledgement of shared human experience intrigues me.

How often do we tune out, dismiss, or angrily rebut those—even friends or acquaintances—who offend us? When our hackles get raised, do we stop to consider their basic—flawed but beautiful—humanity? I know I am often two steps ahead—either licking my wounds or lashing out, but not listening.

Although my reexamination of the book coincided with the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, I actually plucked it from my bookshelf because of its focus on forgiveness. I wanted to see what solace and insight I could glean from the conversation Wiesenthal invites. Last month during a visit with a friend, we exchanged painfully critical observations; we have not yet reconciled. I am embarrassed by things I said and how I said them, and my own anger and sadness over her sharp comments left me feeling spent at a time when I already felt down. But there is relief in forgiveness. If I can’t heal this rift just yet, perhaps I can mend my own fractured feelings.

Harry James Cargas—the only Catholic ever appointed to the International Advisory Board of Yad Vashem—argues for forgiveness in terms I understand. He explains, “I am afraid not to forgive because I fear not to be forgiven.” He asks if any of us can feel confident that our behavior will withstand the scrutiny of justice. Similarly, the Dalai Lama discusses forgiveness in the context of what the forgiver gains or loses. He relates the story of a Tibetan monk who served 18 years in a Chinese prison. When asked by the Dalai Lama what he most feared during his imprisonment, he responded that he dreaded losing his compassion for the Chinese. He knew he would be a lesser man for it.

“Forgiving is not something you do for another person…Forgiving happens inside us. It represents a letting go of the sense of grievance, and perhaps most importantly a letting go of the role of victim,” argues Harold Kushner—bestselling author and rabbi for 24 years at Temple Israel in Natick, MA.  If we want to free ourselves from the weight of a grudge, we must acknowledge the cost of continuing to bear it. Franciscan nun and Native American columnist José Hobday, puts it this way: Offering forgiveness is the medicine that enables you to let go of the poison of bitterness. She explains, “No one, no memory, should have the power to hold us down, to deny us peace. Forgiving is the real power.”

This morning, on my dawn run down by the Retreat Meadows, I heard the bleating of goats, the insistent squeaks of the spring peepers, and a solitary goose calling through the fog. The opening words of Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese” came to mind: “You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.”  I listened to my footfalls on the dusty pavement and thought, “Forgive yourself and your imperfections. Embrace your own messy, magnificent humanity.”

She’s been called the “kid-whisperer” of Mackworth Island.  Pender Makin—Maine’s 2013 Principal of the Year—directs a public alternative high school on a tiny island just off the coast of Portland. I got to know Makin last month when we toured Bath Iron Works with a group of Maine educators. The tour was part of an innovative program to connect educators with Maine’s industries. She talked passionately about her work, and repeatedly attributed her success to the high quality and dedication of her staff. She draws people to her by simply shining a light on the power of possibility.

I first met Makin when a friend coached a team of educational leaders whose group work had gone hopelessly awry; Makin was a member of the team. This set of principals and superintendents struggled to truthfully name why—for months—they hadn’t worked well together. When it was Makin’s turn to speak, she looked around the table, opened her eyes wide, flashed a genial smile, and then put her finger directly on what had troubled her: Some members of the team had made mean-spirited and insensitive comments, either intentionally or inadvertently, and now others felt uncomfortable speaking their minds. After she’d finished speaking, the group’s mood shifted instantly. Her courage and honesty cut through the muck; the group was back on track by the end of the evening. It was inspiring to witness.

Makin’s actions exemplified what Santa Clara University professors James Kouzes and Barry Posner—authors of The Leadership Challenge—identify as a key practice of effective leadership: modeling the way.  They assert that in order to successfully encourage the behavior you expect of others, “Leaders must find their own voice, and then they must clearly and distinctively give voice to their values.” Once they take a stand, they use relationships to forge agreement around common principles. Makin did just that; she frankly but thoughtfully identified behavior that had become permissible and then invited the group to find a kinder—but still truthful—way forward. The group responded because Makin has credibility. This is the bedrock foundation of effective leadership. As Kouzes and Posner maintain, “If you don’t believe the messenger, you won’t believe the message.”

Kouzes and Posner’s 25+ years of research—based on thousands of personal interviews and 75,000 written responses collected all over the globe—reveals that, remarkably, “ordinary people who guide others along pioneering journeys follow rather similar paths.” Regardless of the organization, the country, or the gender of the leader, leaders who get extraordinary results from their groups all engage in five practices of exemplary leadership: modeling the way; inspiring a shared vision; challenging the process of the organization; enabling others to act; and encouraging personal connections. When leaders successfully employ these practices, individuals willingly follow them and become more invested in both the organization and their own productivity.

Their research also pinpoints four key characteristics that people—across time and cultures—look for in their leaders: foresight, inspiration, honesty, and competence.  These qualities ranked well above imagination. Those interviewed sensed that effective leaders know how to bring out the best in their team members. They don’t necessarily need to possess the imagination to move an organization forward, but must identify who does. They use their position and talents to create a common core of understanding, build agreement on what is valued and expected, and then employ the gifts of their team members.

Makin has this talent in spades. Jeanne Crocker—assistant executive director for the Maine Principal’s Association—said that Makin enlists and nurtures her staff. Crocker recently told the Portland Press Herald, “She helps her staff become the best they can be.” She does this is by publicly valuing each member of her team—from drivers to instructors. Makin acknowledges that the school’s loving and supportive atmosphere is created by the entire team: “This is a group of people who work shoulder-to-shoulder…You can really feel a good vibe when you come into our school.”

Makin also fearlessly challenges the process of education. Assistant principal Martin Mackey says, “She has the professional courage to try anything, and with that courage comes tremendous opportunity for success.” Mackey explains that Makin has spent her entire career developing creative solutions for some of Maine’s most troubled students. Says Crocker, “She does totally out-of-the-box stuff” and “has a reputation for working miracles.” The staff and students respond; they adore her and are healed by her.

This gifted leader attributes some of her success to her job before she went into education: bartending. She trained her ear to listen to the subtext of others’ stories and tuned her heart to feel for vibrations of loss and longing. It isn’t surprising that this former bartender’s desk is right in the middle of the hallway. She explains, “This is a job where you have to be super approachable.” This aligns with what Kouzes and Posner assert is critical for any effective leader: close proximity to the people with whom you work: “[Y]ou have to get near enough to people if you’re going to find out what motivates them, what they like and don’t like, and the kinds of recognition that are most appreciated.” You must bring your heart to your work.

As we parted ways, it occurred to me that although we stood among awe-inspiring ships at Bath Iron Works, I left feeling even more inspired by Makin’s ability to build strong relationships. She gave me a marvelous gift: a chart for navigating effective leadership in my own work.

There’s a story we tell about Brattleboro, and by extension, Windham County. It’s the narrative we read in last year’s Smithsonian Magazine’s Top 20 Best American Small Towns list: We are an area rich in creativity and forward thinkers, and our music, art, and theater offerings are astounding for such a thinly populated area. Many Brattleboro residents are indeed justifiably proud of our arts town.  It is chock full of artistry, creativity and musicianship, so the story many of us tell is truthful in a certain light. But when one narrative starts to takes precedence over all others, deeper meaning and complex understanding gets lost. Many who live in our area just don’t recognize this story of a thriving artists’ haven; they know a very different town. It’s time for us to create a new, more nuanced narrative together.

I inadvertently started gathering other stories of our area after I wrote a Christmas Eve column about our need for economic development. A reader—originally from Westminster but now residing in Virginia—wrote an honest, poignant email about his inability to find work here in southern Vermont. As we corresponded several more times, the subtext of his writing became clearer: There are important stories of our area that don’t get told. Or, perhaps, they do get told, but we haven’t trained our ears well enough to truly listen.

After a March column, The Making of Things, I heard from artists, business owners, retirees, longtime residents, newer arrivals, activists, and community leaders in town. All their comments echoed an inescapable implication: The story we tell about our town is not complete; it leaves out the experience of many people.

There is danger in a single story. Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie addresses this danger in a TED Global talk she recorded in July 2009. When Adichie first wrote stories—at the age of 7—she only wrote what she’d read: American and British children’s literature. All her characters were blue-eyed and white; they played in the snow and spoke of the weather; and they consumed apples and ginger beer—all absolutely foreign to a young Nigerian girl. “We are vulnerable in the face of a story,” she explains. We lose our own experience to the more powerful—and ubiquitous—narrative.

Adichie recounts the pity her college roommate felt for her long before they’d met; she believed that Africa’s sole story was one of poverty and civil strife. Adichie’s experience growing up on a university campus in Eastern Nigeria—the child of college professor and an administrator—could not have been more different from her roommate’s imaginings. When her roommate asked to hear some of her “tribal music,” she was sorely disappointed when Adichie whipped out a Mariah Carey tape.  She explains, “My roommate had a single story of Africa: a single story of catastrophe.  In this single story…there was no possibility of a connection as human equals.”

When you have power, you have the ability to highlight your own story and whether willfully or not, crowd out others’ narratives.  And where you begin will necessarily change the story. This is true for our town, too. The narrative of an arts town is fairly recent, but it has gained traction quickly. As Adichie says, the story is not untrue, but it is incomplete.

Let’s expand and strengthen the story of our area. We must avoid a shorthand description of who we are because shorthand will not guide us bravely and honestly towards what we want to be. No matter the issue—diversity, economic development, poverty, or our arts community—the perspective and the starting point of the narrative are both critical to the story. Let’s embrace depth and complexity.

Marshall Ganz—lecturer at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government—asserts that a story’s real power is its ability to communicate fear, hope, and anxiety, and “because we can feel it, we get the moral not just as a concept, but as a teaching of our hearts.” A story can also help us create the “us” in a community. He explains, “It’s putting what we share into words.” This act of sharing stories generates the “us” of a place, and it can help banish the “us and them.”

I invite all of you to share your own story of our area. Whoever you are, whatever your experience, write a story, short description, anecdote, a memory, or a really good yarn that captures what this corner of VT means to you.  Keep it to 900 words max—but feel no obligation to write that much. If you are not confident writing it yourself, grab a friend who will take dictation for you. And please pass this invitation along to those who don’t read this newspaper. Email the stories to me with the subject line: The Stories We Tell. Or mail them to Becca Balint c/o of the Reformer. I’ll be honored to read them.

What will I do with all these stories? Honestly, I’m not sure yet, but I can’t wait to find out. Right now I just want to start this important conversation.

Inspired by Alice Walker, Adichie concludes her talk with this wisdom: “When we reject a single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”

We first heard about the devastating news from Boston through anxious calls left on our answering machine by my father-in-law. Knowing we’re runners, he thought we might have been at the Boston Marathon—either running or cheering on friends. As he is not a runner, he can be forgiven for not knowing that we’d never make the qualifying times required to toe the starting line of running’s most hallowed race. And as a non-runner friend recently confided to my spouse about having to watch her husband’s races, “Running is not a terribly exciting event to watch.”  It’s a lot of standing around waiting for your loved one to either dash or lope by.

That is what I’ve been thinking about this week: Cheering on runners—especially ones you don’t know personally—is a selfless public show of love and support for your fellow man. It is an act that demonstrates admiration for those who push beyond their self-conceived limits; it confirms the resilience and aspirations of humankind. Those spectators who found themselves dreadfully close to ground zero represent the best parts of all of us. They stood in solidarity with strength and hope, and as a result, their pain and horrific loss is not theirs alone.

I ran my first distance race—the Leaf Peepers Half Marathon in Waterbury, VT—almost a decade ago. As a lifelong asthmatic, I never thought I could run that far. But I picked up a dog-eared training guide by marathon runner Jeff Galloway at a used bookshop and decided I could do it if I simply followed his advice:  Adhere to the “one more mile” philosophy. Each week, you add just one more mile to your longest run and eventually—miraculously—you work your way up to the desired total.  I was simultaneously skeptical and hopeful.

I logged a lot of miles that summer along Putney’s back roads and was astounded when I soon routinely ran for over an hour without collapsing in a sweaty, foul heap. Galloway later developed a more specific training program for novice distance runners like me, but the advice I followed that summer was bare boned. Bottom line: I really didn’t know what the hell I was doing. This meant that I didn’t drink enough water; I didn’t consume enough calories; I ran too many hills and injured my Achilles’ tendons. I confided to one of my friends that I often felt queasy at the end of my long runs. She declared that I certainly needed more food and water.  I insisted it had more to do with the heat, or my asthma medicine, or my speed—pretty much anything other than the ridiculously obvious reasons.

And yet, I still kept at it. It was so satisfying to push my body far beyond what I believed possible. In my mind I was still that 10-year-old chubby asthmatic, wheezing and crying on my family’s back stoop because I couldn’t catch my breath after a rowdy game of touch football with the neighborhood kids. My body’s transformation happened a lot more quickly than my spirit’s. It was only when I stood at the starting line that following autumn that I finally began to see myself in a different light. I allowed myself to dream:  I am a runner.

I wish I could report that my first race was triumphant. I wish I could recount my perfectly executed race plan and my soaring feelings of invincibility. It was, honestly, pretty ugly.  As many inexperienced runners do, I went out too fast. An awful stomach cramp gripped me mid-race, and by mile 10 I was undeniably starving. Other runners had wisely packed sports gels and hip flasks of Gatorade. I could only gulp entirely unsatisfying water from minuscule cups at each hydration station and mine my psyche for the will to keep hobbling along.

I had a lot of help along the way. Other runners offered encouragement and advice as they shuffled by, their comments utterly devoid of judgment or disparagement. Everyone who passed me seemed entirely invested in my completion of this small, inconsequential race. Frankly, I had to finish; I couldn’t let them down.

The last quarter mile passed through the aging stubble of a corn field whose edge was framed by a tiny ditch—the very one I had to ford in order to reach the finish line’s chute. Incredibly, this modest drainage trench took on mammoth proportions in my mind. My legs were useless, like the wobbly appendages of an octopus—entirely unsuited for running a half marathon. I feared the trough would be my undoing. But as I willed my jelly legs to buck up, I heard the spectators cheering on the runners before me.

They were not hailing the winners. No, the fleet of foot had finished a full hour before. They applauded the gutsy, poor slobs like me who thought a half marathon once sounded like a good idea. Their boisterous cheers and clanging cow bells nearly brought me to tears. I knew I would finish.

There is, of course, high drama that plays out on any race course. There are photo finishes and come-from-behind victories. There are first-time finishers who revel in their achievements, and extraordinarily devoted parents who push wheelchair-bound children along for 26.2 backbreaking miles. But there is nothing so dramatic, or so noble, as throngs of supporters welcoming us all home for no reason but love.

Last year, on a lark, I submitted an Op Ed to the Reformer about a controversial education issue. I’ve always been opinionated and generally savor the opportunity to share my thoughts with others. The piece was well-received; it was a very satisfying one-off.  Then, unexpectedly, a friend at the Reformer mentioned to me that Meg Mott had chosen to stop writing her column to dedicate herself to finishing a book. This friend asked if I would consider filling the spot and encouraged me to call the editor.

I initially balked at the idea of writing every week. I couldn’t envision when I would fit it in to my schedule; I was concerned that I couldn’t think of an interesting topic each week; and, honestly, I felt a little queasy at the thought of sharing so many ideas so publicly. But the pit in my stomach when the editor offered me the weekly column—although a sure indication of my nervousness and trepidation—was also a clear sign of excitement and opportunity. It was a defining moment. This weekly column has surprisingly become a vital source of information and communication for me. I mistakenly thought it was all about my thoughts; I’ve come to realize it’s actually entirely about this community and the connections we create together.

My readers generally contact me directly, instead of posting to my blog.  Over the year, hundreds of people have reached out to discuss what I’ve written; they want genuine communication with me about their ideas. Readers email, stop me on the street, send me actual letters, and call me to tell me how something I wrote moved them. They share articles, interviews, links, YouTube clips, but most importantly, they offer their memories, their confidences, and their principles. This rich exchange of ideas and information has been undeniably awe-inspiring to me. I hold my readers’ revelations in profound reverence; they shape who I am and what I yearn for—as a writer, human, and citizen.

It feels entirely fitting that the one year anniversary of my column happens to coincide with National Library Week. Like my column writ large, our local library is a place where we exchange ideas which then are transformed and transported out into our broader community.  And just as my ideas about my writing have shifted as I’ve crafted my columns all year, how I view our local library has also dramatically changed.

As a teenager, our local library was my refuge. Before I had my driver’s license, my mom would drop me off, and I’d sit among the stacks for hours devouring books and periodicals. Likewise, Brooks Memorial Library is very much a place of solace and shelter for many in our town, as is evident by the patrons who settle in by the generous windows to read. A comfortable nostalgia claims me as I watch people reading books and periodicals in the same way I did 30 years ago. But our libraries have become so much more dynamic and powerful than they were when I searched for elements of myself in novels and biographies. They are now pulsating information centers feeding the community’s insatiable curiosity.

What hasn’t changed is that we unceasingly search for connection and consequence. We seek out information and context to give our lives meaning and direction and to guide us towards our best selves.  As a recent study by Pew Research Center—for the Pew Internet and American Life Project—illuminated, libraries have changed because “information is now portable, participatory and personal.” It is the participatory and personal elements that most interest me, as so many people now go to libraries to connect to individuals and organizations through the internet.

More than 99% of American libraries provide free internet to their communities. Half of all people who visit American libraries take advantage of that service. Millions of people use it for education and training, as well as for career and employment information. A staggering 84% of Americans surveyed said that internet availability at libraries is critically important for their communities. Our libraries facilitate the sharing and consumption of ideas, and anyone can find a point of connection and entry: A recent week’s offerings at Brooks Memorial Library included one-on-one computer coaching, a Jane Austen book club discussion, a lecture on American Western Art, and an Italian vacation film series. Certainly these offerings encourage edification, but really—at their core—they’re actually about building relationships and bonds in and across our community.

Seth Godin—best-selling author and dynamic entrepreneur—recently posted on his blog about the critical importance of connection: “The next time you feel lonely, disconnected or unappreciated, consider that unlike many other maladies…this one is easily overcome by realizing you can cure the problem by connecting, appreciating, leading.”  When we realize that others need us and “our forward motion, and the value we create”, we can assuage our disconnection.  He concludes that when we share the light of new ideas, we all see more clearly.

If you look carefully some afternoon, you might see me, like countless others, tapping away on my laptop, crafting my next column in the mezzanine of our local library. That hallowed space evokes and solidifies for me the reason why I write each week; I also strive to be a point of connection, interaction and the exchange of ideas and emotions.