Burlington, Vt.'s farmers market is legend around this tiny state. Not only can you find every kind of organic vegetable, free-range meat or handcrafted cheese, but this year you can also get a made-to-order poem. Benjamin Aleshire, a local poet, will write anyone a sprightly verse on a topic of their choosing for a small donation. Aleshire bangs out each poem on the back of some scrap paper with a portable typewriter. Call it poetry busking. Or call it a poem store. It's quirky, it's precious and it's definitely the sound of Burlington.

HOST: Choreographer Judith Jamison said that from the minute she first walked into a dance class she understood the space was sacred and precious. It is in the rehearsal studio that she most actively lives her belief, and it was in her studio on 55th Street in Manhattan that we recorded her. Here is Judith Jamison of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater with her essay for This I Believe. JAMISON: I believe that there is sanctity in the fact that we are only on this earth for a short period of time. And I believe that with that time we better be doing something good. That was the last thing my Father said before he died: "Be good." That was it. In my life and work, I've found that honesty comes with goodness. My Mother used to say, and she was quoting Shakespeare, "This above all, to thine own self be true." In the rehearsal studio, I strive to be as true to myself as I possibly can. For me, the studio is hallowed ground, where the realities of self and spirit are revealed. There is a sense that I am breathing rarified air, special and pure, like on Mount Everest. And in the studio, on this higher ground, we are unified in purpose. Everyone in the room is vulnerable. I've been a dancer. I've been a choreographer. I know what it's like on both sides. The dancer surrenders to the choreographer, and the choreographer to the dancer. We shed layers of needless emotions. The camouflage disappears to reveal the innocence and honesty of the child within us all. And, in each others arms, when the dancer and choreographer surrender together, anything is possible. A dancer can have all the right physical moves, but that doesn't mean they'll knock your socks off. They have to find their truth in what they want to say and show us who they are as a person. Once I had a dancer who was a beautiful dancer with a gorgeous body. But I couldn't get him to express himself. He had to go further. He had to tell me his journey, his emotional center, but he wouldn't. One time we were in rehearsal. He had a five-minute solo. He did it once. He was breathing hard. I said, "Do it again." The second time he was so exhausted he had no choice: He had to go deeper. He was honest. He arrived. It was exquisite. As dancers, we need to bring our life experiences to the stage. We don't just want to thrill an audience with how many turns we can do or how high we can jump or raise our legs. Plenty of people can do that with practice. We need to share our truth. When a performance stands out, it's not just the arms and legs that stay in your mind. What you remember is the feeling you get from the performance, and that feeling comes from the dancers' expression of self. A good performance on stage should take the audience on a journey where they learn something about themselves. It's about all of us. It's about reaching for perfection, and, most of all, it's about honesty. I believe that to "be good," as my father instructed, we must be true to ourselves.

HOST:  Today on This I Believe, we hear from former heavyweight boxing champion Muhammad Ali.  Beyond his athletic achievements, he's known for his irrepressible personality, his public conversion to Islam, his resistance to the Vietnam War, and his humanitarian efforts around the world.  Ali worked on his statement with his wife, Lonnie.  They discussed with family members the stories and lessons of Ali's life.  And because his speech and motor skills are affected by Parkinson's Disease, Ali asked his wife to read the essay out loud for him.  But we also left a recorder at their house so, when his voice was strong, Ali could speak a few words of introduction. Here are Lonnie and Muhammad Ali with his essay for This I Believe.  

MUHAMMAD ALI:  I’m Muhammad Ali, and this I believe.

LONNIE ALI:   have always believed in myself, even as a young child growing up in Louisville, Ky.  My parents instilled a sense of pride and confidence in me, and taught me and my brother that we could be the best at anything.  I must have believed them because I remember being the neighborhood marble champion and challenging my neighborhood buddies to see who could jump the tallest hedges or run a foot race the length of the block. Of course I knew when I made the challenge that I would win.  I never even thought of losing.

In high school I boasted weekly—if not daily—that one day I was going to be the heavy weight champion of the world. As part of my boxing training, I would run down Fourth Street in downtown Louisville, darting in and out of local shops, taking just enough time to tell them I was training for the Olympics and I was going to win a gold medal. And when I came back home I was going to turn pro and become the world heavyweight champion in boxing.  I never thought of the possibility of failing—only of the fame and glory I was going to get when I won. I could see it.  I could almost feel it.  When I proclaimed that I was the “Greatest of All Time,” I believed in myself.   And still do.

Throughout my entire boxing career, my belief in my abilities triumphed over the skill of an opponent. My will was stronger than their skills. What I didn’t know was that my will would be tested even more when I retired.

In 1984, I was conclusively diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Since that diagnosis, my symptoms have increased and my ability to speak in audible tones has diminished.  If there was anything that would strike at the core of my confidence in myself, it would be this insidious disease. But my confidence and will to continue to live life as I choose won’t be compromised.

Early in 1996, I was asked to light the cauldron at the Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta, Ga.  Of course my immediate answer was yes. I never even thought of having Parkinson’s or what physical challenges that would present for me. 

When the moment came for me to walk out on the 140-foot high scaffolding and take the torch from Janet Evans, I realized I had the eyes of the world on me. I also realized that as I held the Olympic torch high above my head, my tremors had taken over.  Just at that moment, I heard a rumble in the stadium that became a pounding roar and then turned into a deafening applause. I was reminded of my 1960 Olympic experience in Rome, when I won the gold medal.  Those 36 years between Rome and Atlanta flashed before me and I realized that I had come full circle.  

Nothing in life has defeated me. I am still the “Greatest.” This I believe.

MUHAMMAD ALI:  I’m still the greatest of all time. This I Believe.