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.

The wig was ill-fitting and the glasses were enormous. I didn’t often wear heels, so my stride onto the stage was not nearly as confident as it could have been. But as soon as I reached the podium and gazed out at the undulating sea of supporters and detractors, I found my gumption. It was 1984 and I’d been picked by my 11^th grade social studies teacher to portray Geraldine Ferraro in our school’s mock nominating convention. Like Ferraro herself said in her actual nomination acceptance speech, I was “absolutely thrilled.”

Our convention was unconventional in that both major political parties shared the same hall, and we delivered our nomination speeches to everyone. A close friend portrayed Ferraro’s running mate, Walter Mondale. We were a formidable team, each a potent package of moxie, humor and preparedness. Frankly, we knew our speeches were better than our opponents’ offerings, as we’d crafted them in side-by-side political scrums in our classroom. Emotionally I wasn’t prepared for the sexist barbs that were hurled at “my” Ferraro from some members of the audience, but intellectually I was ready for battle.

I launched some great impromptu one-liners, meeting each attack tit-for-tat; I wasn’t at all interested in hearing the other party’s platform or ideas. But I was in high school and can be forgiven for both my self-righteousness and my ample indignation when others disagreed with my positions. It was my job.

Righteous indignation is quintessentially adolescent—as we struggle mightily to sort out who we are and want to be—but it is less useful when we “grow up”.  As we become more sure of who we are, we need an accompanying ability to truly listen to an opposing view point—rather than waiting for someone to stop talking so that we can tell them all the reasons they’re wrong.

In 2008 The Economist ran a piece about Bill Bishop’s theory of American political segregation.  Bishop and sociology professor Robert Cushing—who wrote “The Big Sort: Why the Clustering of Like-Minded America is Tearing Us Apart” —assert that Americans “Balkanize” as we increasingly choose to live among like-minded neighbors. The bitter culture wars become more personal, and political solutions to problems become nearly impossible as we aggressively shut out opposing views.

Bishop highlights that when Jimmy Carter narrowly won the presidency in 1976—with 50.1% of the popular vote—just 26.8% of Americans lived in so-called “landslide counties” (where Carter either won or lost by 20 or more percentage points).  The proportion of Americans who now reside in lop-sided political counties has doubled since then. Bishop explains that our national credo of mobility, combined with “even a mild preference for living with like-minded neighbors leads over time to severe segregation.” Many of us now live “in a giant feedback loop”—hearing our own deeply held beliefs reflected back to us by the neighbors we choose, the newspapers we read, and the cable news programs we consume.

Although there is superficial comfort that comes from surrounding ourselves with likeminded people, there is a real danger in never being exposed to opposing views. Diana Mutz, political science professor at the University of Pennsylvania, examined data from 12 other nations and discovered that although Americans are more likely to have political discussions than citizens of many other countries, “they are the least likely of all to talk about politics with those who disagreed with them.”  We can’t wrestle with big problems when we’re conducting our conversations in echo chambers. The creative process has no room in which to thrive when the starting position is complete entrenchment.

As hard as it is to resist the pull of likeminded people, though, it is even tougher to fight genetics.  Rose McDermott–political science professor at Brown University—asserts that many political preferences on the spectrum of conservative to liberal are not based in social causes but come instead from hereditary components. McDermott explained in an August 2012 interview that the underlying propensity to be conservative or liberal—in attitudes and ideology—appears to have a significant genetic foundation. Evolutionarily speaking, we’re all trying to protect our “in-group.”

Given our geographic and genetic limitations, we must make a concerted, perhaps a Herculean, effort to listen to those whose views do not align with our own.  A friend of mine—a Vermont lefty—recently confided in me that he was disappointed with the “smugness” he felt was an aspect of Vermont lefty politics. I told him that this same smugness exists in my in-laws’ home state of Wyoming—only it comes from the Republican majority. When we stop believing the opposing side has anything to add to the discussion, a dangerous self-satisfaction moves in and takes up residence.

What would happen if we each had a generosity of spirit and a willingness—even for just a moment—to consider that we might be wrong about a particular issue. I’m not talking about giving purchase to Holocaust deniers or racists. I mean all those complicated issues that we try to make simple through slogans and talking points: health care, social security, size of government, guns, same-sex marriage, etc. What would open up if we approached these difficult conversations with respect and a real desire to listen and understand the other person?

Although, admittedly, it can be awfully fun to hurl zingers across a stage at a political opponent—or mock another’s point of view that we consider so outrageous—ultimately, it shortchanges our democracy.

A friend is dying. I truly believed—was so certain—that she’d managed to whip her cancer that I felt utterly ambushed by the news that it had returned for another grueling contest. And I was wholly unprepared for her decision not to fight this round. So this is where we are; a friend is dying.

I have held her spirit so close to me these past few days, and a precious cache of images has opened up to me.

Each fall we plant a riot of tulips in our front bed. We made a decision years ago that the rather expensive gesture gave back so much to us, to our neighbors, and to passersby, that the investment was absolutely worth it.  As I anticipate the sturdy and insistent flowers bursting through the soil and declaring, “Ha! We’re here!” I think of my friend, skidding to a halt in front of our house, leaning out the window and yelling, “Love those tulips!”  She more than appreciates our tulips; she relishes them. I will savor their lush splendor in a new way this season because she has—through her simple unabashed pleasure—invited me to do so.

My kids have spent hundreds—perhaps thousands?—of hours becoming one with their sandbox. Spring, summer and fall have meant one thing for years: The sand will inexorably find its way into every nether nook and distant cranny of our home. One of the first phrases my son learned and robustly repeated was one he heard so often from us, “Oh, man! Sand!” Whenever I’ve doubted the wisdom of inviting the unrelenting Sahara into our home ad infinitum, my friend has been there to insist that kids must be outside. Period. Her no-nonsense speaking style leaves little room for argument. I find this such a comfort; we all want to feel that we’ve made sound parenting decisions.

In hundreds of bits of conversation over the years, she has simply and exquisitely appreciated my parenting. She notices when I strap my kids into backpacks or strollers, unfailingly valuing the beauty in the humble act of getting my children out in the open air. So often my mornings have been filled with her indisputable and fervent words: “It’s going to be a beautiful day! You’ve got to get those kids out!” I hold her broad and adamant smile in my mind’s eye as I embark on the daunting struggle with toddlers, shoes, coats, hats, mittens. Got to get those kids out.  I am profoundly grateful for her resolute articulation of this imperative.

We have spent snatches of many early mornings talking local politics, discussing lines from my column, and sharing parenting stories. Several weeks ago, she shared this chestnut with me. When her daughter was very young, they were out shopping together, and her daughter noticed a haggard mom pushing a shopping cart brimming with children of all ages and sizes. Her daughter turned to her and said, “Mom, these Vermonters just keep having babies until they get a good one, huh?” This story—which made me howl with laughter—now holds special meaning to me; the young girl is now a grown woman who will soon watch her mother let go and fall into the waiting arms of a loving universe.

What I’ve been considering—as I swim in the shock and sorrow—is that love is the ultimate improvisation. Like a jazz pianist who tickles out a melody and waits for the response from the rest of the trio, we throw out riffs and phrases to seek connection with others.  We noodle and jam throughout our days and hope to find a groove that sticks. Whether it’s screaming, soul-aching love; unfathomable and fierce love for a child; or tender friendships that build slowly over time, we all make it up as we go along. The improvisation is sometimes buoyant and brilliant but just as likely to be clunky and challenging. But we play it, nonetheless, endlessly seeking connection and meaning—fervently wishing to be seen, heard, and, ultimately, remembered.

The devastating news about my friend’s cancer coincided with my rediscovery of legendary jazz pianist Bill Evans. His dazzling recordings at the Village Vanguard have played non-stop in my kitchen for weeks, as I furtively grab snatches of culture between distinctly underwhelming chores. Evans once said, “Each day becomes all of life in microcosm.” Although he was referring to the cycle of death and transfiguration that he experienced through his drug addiction, he was on to something much deeper. Whether it is creating unforgettable music or building love one conversation at a time, today is all of life. Our daily experiences create our memory and our memory, in turn, forges our identity.

In their 2001 book, A General Theory of Love, Thomas Lewis, Fari Amini and Richard Lannon—professors of psychiatry at University of California San Francisco—proclaim: “Memory is a small word that contains whole worlds.” With little effort, we recall places and people long since gone because their impressions remain embedded along synaptic paths. They explain, “Memory lies at the heart of who we are and who we become. A scientific theory of memory is therefore a map of the soul.”

Our memories, then, give us inexhaustible access to all the past improvisation we’ve created with dear ones—when we composed our love one brave note at a time.  And they affirm that our lives are unquestionably richer for all the phrases and refrains we’ve played together.

My friend, thank you.  I cherish our improvs with profound reverence. You will be remembered.

I’ve been worried about my son starting kindergarten since…well, honestly, since right around the day he was born. As a former educator, I am acutely aware of the ways in which schools cannot possibly meet all his needs. I know this, and yet, I still want them to. My spouse, thankfully, reminds me of our son’s superb resilience and his remarkable ability to get his needs met. He’s a full-time advocate for his desires.  And yet, the worry has still lingered.

Recently, though, I noticed my anxiety slipping away when I attended kindergarten registration at Green Street School. We met with the teachers, administrators and support staff to learn the ropes—although this may not be the school our son will eventually attend. Brattleboro no longer has neighborhood schools. This decision was made, in part, to consolidate programs, but in a larger, philosophical push, to insure economic diversity at all three of the elementary schools. Now your child may be placed at any elementary school.

While we talked with the adults, our son had “choice time” in one of the kindergarten rooms, and our 2½ year old daughter repeatedly expressed her indignation at our assertions that she was not quite ready for kindergarten. In between soothing and cajoling, we spoke with a parade of professionals. The orientation process was astounding.

Schools juggle so many big issues. Staff members interviewed and observed my child to see if there were any Speech/Language issues that needed early intervention. An ESL teacher gathered information about the predominate language spoken at home, and the nurse questioned us about medical issues, major and minor, that might impact my son’s learning.  Although he is prone to using puns, has a diet that consists primarily of applesauce, and demonstrates his desire to learn Italian by speaking in an Italian accent, I sensed these were not the issues or concerns that the educators had in mind.

The discussion that really expanded my sense of the work of schools was the one that happened within the counselor’s office.

Although I have seen the colossal emotional baggage that students bring with them to school each day, I was still unprepared for this question: “Has your son witnessed or experienced any trauma in his life?”  The question landed with a terrifying thud in my solar plexus. Although I felt sublime relief that I could answer an unequivocal “No,” I ached for the parents and children for whom this question was fraught with desolation, or worse, an uncomfortable familiarity.  This question is on the standard list of queries for incoming kindergarten parents because there is a genuine need to ask it. This thought made me ill.

At a K-8 school staff meeting over 10 years ago, we discussed the expanded free breakfast and lunch programs at our school. Several teachers voiced concern that we had ceased being teachers and now acted like parents. We all felt the desire to give all students the tools and resources to be successful in school. But there was also unease at how the lines between teaching and parenting had markedly blurred.  Schools now act as proxy parents in countless ways because families cannot meet their obligations due to drug abuse, mental illness, grinding poverty, incarcerated parents, and other distressingly difficult scenarios.

According to U.S. Census Bureau data, just about 11% of Windham County residents live below the poverty level.  In our Brattleboro town schools, more than 50% of our students receive free or reduced cost lunches. According to data from the 2002 Community Assessment Project, over 52% of single moms with children under 5 years old live in poverty in Windham County.  Since 1999, Windham County has had a higher percentage of “new families at risk” than in the rest of Vermont: Young women under 20, without a high school diploma, who have children. This puts our schools under tremendous pressure.

I used to direct a co-ed residential summer camp in central Vermont. We sent 11-15 year olds all over New England on adventure trips. Because there were so many inherent risks in our program, we would ward off the evil eye by challenging it. Our favorite joke was that a successful day of camp program was a day with no deaths. This macabre humor helped assuage our ever-present anxiety and kept us focused on the most important aspect of our jobs: Keeping kids safe.

Our schools are now in a similar situation, I fear, but it’s no joke.

In Brattleboro’s Representative Town Meeting on Saturday, we wrestled with the school budget for hours. As I listened to the debate, I realized that we were tangling with a heart-rending paradox. We want to keep taxes low to assist the poorest among us, but it is these same families that often need schools to provide vital, but expensive, support services.  In this year’s budget the allocation for student psychological services increased 22%. This money holds children’s lives together; it’s not bells and whistles as some reps implied.

I know there will be times when I’ll fret about all the non-academic issues that will pull my son’s teacher’s attention away from actually teaching. But I also know that I must be invested in the health of our school as a whole, and not just my personal piece of the puzzle.

And I must gratefully acknowledge the wealth of resources and resilience my family is so fortunate to have.

The pantsuit was canary yellow with appliqué patches on the chest and upper arms; it looked like a garage mechanic’s jumper. The year was 1974. My mom purchased the outfit at Sears in anticipation of my first day of school. I loved that pantsuit—everything about it—the patches, the zipper, the collar, its bold hue, and the fact that it was decidedly not a skirt or a dress. Although displayed in the girls’ department, it had a certain boyish flair that appealed to the tomboy in me. Like a driver holding back a purring machine, I was excited, elated, eager.  I couldn’t wait to get to school; I was ready to share my sheer awesomeness with my classmates.

I remember few details from that day except being teased so mercilessly that I vowed I’d never wear it again to school.  I desperately wanted my mom to take me home or bring me different clothes.  I’m not certain what actually transpired.  What I do remember—in fact, what I still feel in the pit of my stomach, now almost 40 years later—is shame.

What exactly did I have to feel ashamed of? Certainly it’s not comfortable or pleasant to be mocked for one’s snazzy, albeit unconventional, poorly-received outfit. But my bright yellow pantsuit—not unlike a neon light flashing its truth—tapped into something I wrestled with already at the age of 6: That despair that comes from realizing that you are out of sync. There’s a code, a rhythm of life, and you don’t know it. I was ashamed that I’d put myself so boldly forward in an audacious zipper jumper that proclaimed my difference.

I’ve been unraveling that shame for decades.

Turns out, I am not alone. Dr. Brené Brown—a research professor at University of Houston Graduate School of Social Work and TED talk phenom—has spent her career studying shame, vulnerability, and courage. When she filmed her initial TED talk on vulnerability, she felt so exposed afterwards that she didn’t leave her house for days. Her embarrassment over her own personal reaction to her research was crushing; she felt ill when she considered that hundreds of people had witnessed her raw honesty and authenticity. In the midst of her self-described “break down” (although her therapist insists it was “a spiritual awakening”), she couldn’t conceive that her research would resonate so deeply with others that her talk, The Power of Vulnerability, would soon be watched by millions. It is mesmerizing to watch this funny, whip-smart Texan—who is so very uncomfortable with her own vulnerability—stand up on stage and wrestle with it.

In thousands of interviews and stories collected over 6 years, Brown noticed an unexpected and discomfiting paradox: Our shame is rooted in the very same thing that will release us from it—vulnerability. Brown defines shame as a fear of disconnection. We ask ourselves, “Is there something about me that if others knew it, it would cause them to reject me?” This fear of rejection is the very thing that keeps people from having true connection. And it is those who fully embrace vulnerability—who believe their imperfections actually make them beautiful and worthy—who live best with courage and compassion. Brown asserts that vulnerability is the birthplace of joy, creativity, belonging and love; it is absolutely fundamental to use it to overcome our shame.

The vulnerability Brown discusses in her books and in her talks, although something we often recoil from in our own lives, is what we unconsciously look for in others. We identify it not as weakness but as courage and an underlying confidence. It goes beyond the hackneyed, “He’s man enough to cry.” It’s about having the self-assurance to show your humanity—complete with untidy inadequacies and shortcomings. We are drawn to those who are wholehearted, and we see this vulnerability as strength, not weakness.

That’s why I found President George W. Bush’s comments after the September 11^th horror so very disappointing. When the nation’s heart had been torn open, and while we fought to staunch the flow, the president reassured us that “America is open for business.” Yes, he had enormous economic pressures on him, and he certainly felt an obligation to claim he would keep us safe from further harm. But his unwillingness to be vulnerable made me feel less safe. His posturing looked childlike. He didn’t have the strength or confidence to acknowledge his own despair and to trust that we, as a grieving nation, could take it.

I recently spoke to a young machinist at a manufacturing plant in Maine who sheepishly admitted that he had never finished high school, that he had only just completed his GED. The look on his face said so much: shame, embarrassment, hope that I’d understand, and a desire to be respected anyway. His bravery in exposing himself was startling and, yes, surprisingly charming.  Witnessing him face his shame—and then hold it out for inspection, moved me to consider my own vulnerability.

For years I thought no one would ever find me attractive. It was like I existed as that 6-year-old in the yellow pantsuit—always out of step. Not good enough. Now in my mid-40s I am returning to something I knew back before my shame and disappointment took hold. We should be audacious, daring and vulnerable.  Sharing one’s whole self, bright yellow pantsuit and all—draws others to you.