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Meditative Story combines the emotional pull of first-person storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of a mindfulness practice. Every week, you’ll receive a new Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle prompts designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations, empowering you to feel restored and refreshed at any moment of the day.
Meditative Story combines the emotional pull of first-person storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of a mindfulness practice. Every week, you’ll receive a new Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle prompts designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations, empowering you to feel restored and refreshed at any moment of the day.
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My funny, feisty, thoughtful brave girl
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Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
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Building a bond with my son
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To visualize... and then make it so
TRANSFORMATION
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awareness
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Lucy Kalanithi shares a story about how much delight and wisdom there can be — even when we’re surrounded by tragic loss — when we see life and death through the eyes of a child.
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DAN HARRIS
acceptance
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Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
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Life and love and the moment
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
Openness
connection
Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being," talks about the time she took a break from the intensity of life and just stopped to check in with herself – with deeply unexpected results.
Arianna Huffington takes us on her journey from Athens to Cambridge, and shares a lesson she learned from her mother of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome.
PICO IYER
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Despite a lifetime of creative success, Apple Music's Global Creative Director, Larry Jackson, didn't believe in the power of manifestation — until he learned a valuable lesson from Jennifer Hudson and her Pomeranian, Grammy.
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Despite a lifetime of creative success, Apple Music's Global Creative Director, Larry Jackson, didn't believe in the power of manifestation — until he learned a valuable lesson from Jennifer Hudson and her Pomeranian, Grammy.
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Travel to Southeast Asia with writer Pico Iyer as he reveals what happens when we allow ourselves to be pulled forward into the unknown, when we wander and let ourselves experience the magic of the scenes unfolding around us.
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I let go of my plan — and found myself
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I let go of my plan — and found myself
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MICHELLE THALLER
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To visualize... and then make it so
LUCY KALANITHI
acceptance
DAN HARRIS
Life and love and the moment
Perspective
Meditative Story combines the emotional pull of first-person storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of a mindfulness practice. Every week, you’ll receive a new Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle prompts designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations, empowering you to feel restored and refreshed at any moment of the day.
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Openness
Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
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Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
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LARRY JACKSON
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
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LATEST EPISODES
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centeredness
change
Perspective
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Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being," talks about the time she took a break from the intensity of life and just stopped to check in with herself – with deeply unexpected results.
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LARRY JACKSON
Openness
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
CLARITY
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Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
Clarity
ACCEPTANCE
Openness
change
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Wonder
A home that had been waiting for me forever
LARRY JACKSON
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Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
CREATIVITY
A home that had been waiting for me forever
>
CREATIVITY
MICHELLE THALLER
DISCOVERY
Wonder
Arianna Huffington takes us on her journey from Athens to Cambridge, and shares a lesson she learned from her mother of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome.
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DAN HARRIS
Arianna Huffington
Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
Despite a lifetime of creative success, Apple Music's Global Creative Director, Larry Jackson, didn't believe in the power of manifestation — until he learned a valuable lesson from Jennifer Hudson and her Pomeranian, Grammy.
LUCY KALANITHI
CLARITY
Arianna Huffington
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PRESENCE
Meditative Story combines the emotional pull of first-person storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of a mindfulness practice. Every week, you’ll receive a new Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle prompts designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations, empowering you to feel restored and refreshed at any moment of the day.
CONNECTION
Arianna Huffington
Travel to Southeast Asia with writer Pico Iyer as he reveals what happens when we allow ourselves to be pulled forward into the unknown, when we wander and let ourselves experience the magic of the scenes unfolding around us.
Perspective
connection
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Clarity
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Building a bond with my son
My funny, feisty, thoughtful brave girl
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About Meditative Story
TRANSFORMATION
awareness
To visualize... and then make it so
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Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
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Connection
Arianna Huffington takes us on her journey from Athens to Cambridge, and shares a lesson she learned from her mother of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome.
Listen
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Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
I let go of my plan — and found myself
Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being", talks about the time she took a break from the intensity of life and just stopped to check in with herself – with deeply unexpected results.
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
I let go of my plan — and found myself
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Lucy Kalanithi shares a story about how much delight and wisdom there can be — even when we’re surrounded by tragic loss — when we see life and death through the eyes of a child.
PRESENCE
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
Fighting my fears, and winning in spite of losing
Meditative Story combines the emotional pull of first-person storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of a mindfulness practice. Every week, you’ll receive a new Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle prompts designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations, empowering you to feel restored and refreshed at any moment of the day.
PERSPECTIVE
WONDER
Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being", talks about the time she took a break from the intensity of life and just stopped to check in with herself – with deeply unexpected results.
Building a bond with my son
ACCEPTANCE
connection
Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
Listen
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
KRISTA TIPPETT
Connection
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
PRESENCE
KRISTA TIPPETT
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Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
About Meditative Story
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
A different storyteller uses high-sensory story telling techniques to transport listeners to a time and place where everything changed for them. As the story unfolds, our host and mindfulness guide, Rohan Gunatillake, offers gentle "mindfulness prompts" embedded in line with the story itself, prompting listeners to settle more deeply in story details, and connect with their own observations. The entire experience is elevated by gorgeous, originally composed musical arrangements by The Holladay Brothers, which rides ethereally above the story. Shifting between music and vibration, the innovative sound design brings the story to life, and transforms the listener's state of mind.
The format invention of Meditative Story
Meditative Story is a first-of-its-kind podcast listening experience that combines the emotional pull of immersive storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of mindfulness practice. Meditative Story is a WaitWhat original series — created by the team who built and led TED's media organization — in close partnership with Arianna Huffington's Thrive Global. The series is made possible with generous support from Salesforce.
The format invention of Meditative Story
About Meditative Story
As a subscriber, every week you'll receive a different Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle promprs designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations. Your entire experience will be elevated by gorgeous music gthat rides ethereally above the narrative. Shifting between music and vibration, the sound design brings each Meditative Story to life, with the aim of giving you the headspace to feel restored and refreshed. Some of the great storytellers you'll hear include On Being's Krista Tippett, restauranteur Danny Meyer, futurist Jane McGonigal, author Pico Iyer, ABC Nightline's Dan Harris, NPR's Peter Sagal, Apple Music's Larry Jackson, NASA's Michelle Thaller, transgender boxer Thomas Page McBee and Dr. Lucy Kalanithi, who shares an epilogue to her late husband Paul Kalanithi's memoir "When Breath Becomes Air." From birth to death — from the most profound and singular to the most common, quotidian, everyday occurences — Meditative Story's 360-degree view on life through story will be as evocative as it is action-based, giving listeners the opportunity to restore themselves at any point of the day.
In each of the 26 episodes that form the first season of Meditative Story:
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A different storyteller uses high-sensory story telling techniques to transport listeners to a time and place where everything changed for them. As the story unfolds, our host and mindfulness guide, Rohan Gunatillake, offers gentle "mindfulness prompts" embedded in line with the story itself, prompting listeners to settle more deeply in story details, and connect with their own observations. The entire experience is elevated by gorgeous, originally composed musical arrangements by The Holladay Brothers, which rides ethereally above the story. Shifting between music and vibration, the innovative sound design brings the story to life, and transforms the listener's state of mind.
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As a subscriber, every week you'll receive a different Meditative Story from a storyteller who will transport you to a time and place where everything changed for them — a story you might find yourself relating to deeply. As the story unfolds, mindfulness guide Rohan will offer gentle promprs designed to calm your mind and help you connect with your own observations. Your entire experience will be elevated by gorgeous music gthat rides ethereally above the narrative. Shifting between music and vibration, the sound design brings each Meditative Story to life, with the aim of giving you the headspace to feel restored and refreshed. Some of the great storytellers you'll hear include On Being's Krista Tippett, restauranteur Danny Meyer, futurist Jane McGonigal, author Pico Iyer, ABC Nightline's Dan Harris, NPR's Peter Sagal, Apple Music's Larry Jackson, NASA's Michelle Thaller, transgender boxer Thomas Page McBee and Dr. Lucy Kalanithi, who shares an epilogue to her late husband Paul Kalanithi's memoir "When Breath Becomes Air." From birth to death — from the most profound and singular to the most common, quotidian, everyday occurences — Meditative Story's 360-degree view on life through story will be as evocative as it is action-based, giving listeners the opportunity to restore themselves at any point of the day.
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
Meditative Story is a first-of-its-kind podcast listening experience that combines the emotional pull of immersive storytelling with the immediate, science-backed benefits of mindfulness practice. Meditative Story is a WaitWhat original series — created by the team who built and led TED's media organization — in close partnership with Arianna Huffington's Thrive Global. The series is made possible with generous support from Salesforce.
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
In each of the 26 episodes that form the first season of Meditative Story:
About Rohan Gunatillake
Our Host
About Rohan Gunatillake
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Rohan Gunatillake
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Rohan Gunatillake is the founder of the best-selling app buddhify and author of Modern Mindfulness: How to Be More Relaxed, Focused, and Kind While Living in a Fast, Digital, Always-On World. With his emphasis on combining meditation, technology and design, Rohan is recognised as one of the most creative yet authentic voices in modern mindfulness, and in 2012 Wired magazine named him in their Smart List of 50 people who will change the world. Rohan is currently associate director of a major healthcare technology initiative for the National Health Service in Scotland and he lives with his family in Glasgow. Follow him on Twitter and Medium
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Our Host
Rohan Gunatillake
Rohan Gunatillake is the founder of the best-selling app buddhify and author of Modern Mindfulness: How to Be More Relaxed, Focused, and Kind While Living in a Fast, Digital, Always-On World. With his emphasis on combining meditation, technology and design, Rohan is recognised as one of the most creative yet authentic voices in modern mindfulness, and in 2012 Wired magazine named him in their Smart List of 50 people who will change the world. Rohan is currently associate director of a major healthcare technology initiative for the National Health Service in Scotland and he lives with his family in Glasgow. Follow him on Twitter and Medium
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In the same way the printed words in a storybook are embellished and brought to life through visual illustration, the words of the storytellers on Meditative Story are imbued with vibrant color through music and sound design. With a sonic palette ranging from lush string orchestration to modular synthesis and ambient soundscapes, The Holladay Brothers have created a signature musical sound that is more immersive than anything you've heard before in the meditation genre. Notice the evolving tones that precede the very first words you hear, preparing you for the story … or how a flurry of harps is then swallowed by a cascade of choral voices before melting into binaural tones to focus your mind during one of the show's guided meditation prompts. A description of the sleeping quarters on a cargo ship might be accompanied by bellowing horns and meandering woodwinds, while in another episode, the vibrating hum of an analogue drone might set the stage for a long train ride through Japan. And as a story reaches its end, a kaleidoscopic reprisal of the episode's melodic themes elevates the listener and crescendos into a resolving wash that gently returns you to reality. Words and music are two parts of a duet that transport the listener and immerse them in the world of Meditative Story.
The Holladay Brothers
About the Holladay Brothers
The Holladay Brothers
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In the same way the printed words in a storybook are embellished and brought to life through visual illustration, the words of the storytellers on Meditative Story are imbued with vibrant color through music and sound design. With a sonic palette ranging from lush string orchestration to modular synthesis and ambient soundscapes, The Holladay Brothers have created a signature musical sound that is more immersive than anything you've heard before in the meditation genre. Notice the evolving tones that precede the very first words you hear, preparing you for the story … or how a flurry of harps is then swallowed by a cascade of choral voices before melting into binaural tones to focus your mind during one of the show's guided meditation prompts. A description of the sleeping quarters on a cargo ship might be accompanied by bellowing horns and meandering woodwinds, while in another episode, the vibrating hum of an analogue drone might set the stage for a long train ride through Japan. And as a story reaches its end, a kaleidoscopic reprisal of the episode's melodic themes elevates the listener and crescendos into a resolving wash that gently returns you to reality. Words and music are two parts of a duet that transport the listener and immerse them in the world of Meditative Story.
About the Holladay Brothers
Our Music
Our Music
The Holladay Brothers
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Change From Within
Change From Within
Making a Small Difference
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How often do you move through your day without really noticing the people around you? How often do you give others in the room space to respond? Too often, we move quickly without being mindful of other voices. But it's mindfulness about the people around you that creates space for trust and connection.
Changing Perspectives
Practice: seek out a long view -- and let that perspective free you from self-restrictions you feel in that moment.
Making a Small Difference
Changing Perspectives
Fostering Connection
Fostering Connection
How often do you move through your day without really noticing the people around you? How often do you give others in the room space to respond? Too often, we move quickly without being mindful of other voices. But it's mindfulness about the people around you that creates space for trust and connection.
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Change can be big or even epic, or it can be much more modest. But powerful all the same.
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Practice: seek out a long view -- and let that perspective free you from self-restrictions you feel in that moment
Changing Perspectives
Salesforce is the perfect partner for Meditative Story because of their devotion to storytelling as a platform for change, and culture of offering mindfulness practices for its 40,000 person team. WaitWhat, Thrive and Salesforce all aim to improve people’s lives, and in doing so, mirror the kind of world we want to live in. In each episode, Salesforce introduces a concept about creating change from within themselves in ways that can cascade out to the world. Each concept is then accompanied by an unexpected micro-step — a simple action — that invites you to begin to bring about that change today.
Salesforce is the perfect partner for Meditative Story because of their devotion to storytelling as a platform for change, and culture of offering mindfulness practices for its 40,000 person team. WaitWhat, Thrive and Salesforce all aim to improve people’s lives, and in doing so, mirror the kind of world we want to live in. In each episode, Salesforce introduces a concept about creating change from within themselves in ways that can cascade out to the world. Each concept is then accompanied by an unexpected micro-step — a simple action — that invites you to begin to bring about that change today.
Change can be big or even epic, or it can be much more modest. But powerful all the same.
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Combat your natural negativity bias by emphasizing positive qualities. Lean into a pleasant experience and see how your outlook changes.
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Combat your natural negativity bias by emphasizing positive qualities. Lean into a pleasant experience and see how your outlook changes.
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Practice: seek out a long view -- and let that perspective free you from self-restrictions you feel in that moment
Making a Small Difference
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Growing the Positive
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Growing the Positive
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“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy the freedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern between what it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
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About Lucy Kalanithi
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My funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
My funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl
Lucy Kalanithi is a doctor and the widow of Paul Kalanithi, author of the memoir "When Breath Becomes Air." Her Meditative Story becomes a coda to his book. She is moved to share it because, as she says: "I try to make life deeper and richer by opening up space to talk about hard things."
acceptance
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Clarity
Lucy Kalanithi is a doctor and the widow of Paul Kalanithi, author of the memoir "When Breath Becomes Air." Her Meditative Story becomes a coda to his book. She is moved to share it because, as she says: "I try to make life deeper and richer by opening up space to talk about hard things."
LUCY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
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Lucy Kalanithi
Episode Transcript
LUCY KALANITHI: Seeing things just as they are has been one of the great lessons of my life. But it’s something that I’ve had to work at consciously for years. The amazing thing about Cady – my funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl – is that she does it effortlessly. She doesn’t have anything to unlearn. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Lucy Kalanithi is an assistant professor of medicine at Stanford Medical School in California, and the widow of Paul Kalanithi, whose posthumous memoir When Breath Becomes Air, I remember reading shortly after it was published in 2016. The story she shares with us here is very special. It’s about how much wisdom and delight there can be – even when we’re surrounded by tragic loss – when we see life and death through the eyes of a child. Eyes unburdened. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Some of the meditation prompts I’ll share during this story may work really well for you. Others, less so. That’s okay. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. KALANITHI: The drive from my house to the cemetery is less than ten minutes. I wind up the Santa Cruz mountains, and then come down just a little bit on the other side. But it feels like a very different place. The weather is different. This is the windward side of the mountain, and it’s colder and more variable than where I live. But today, it’s sunny and I can see five miles out, all the way to the ocean. My emotions are different here. For me, the cemetery is always a physical place where I can feel my feelings. I can’t always predict them before I arrive. Sadness. Yearning. Gratitude. Remembrance. Today, I feel calm. I was a little stressed on the drive, but the moment I get out of my car and take my first breath of the air on this side of the mountain, my body relaxes. I hear the gentle sound of the wind and the squeaky chattering of the chipmunks. I’ve brought my daughter Cady with me to visit her father. She’s four. There are things that children grow up into. Things like feeling part of a family, belonging to a religion, thinking that reading books is important, loving animals. Cady will grow up into the idea of visiting a grave. She won't remember not knowing it. Paul is buried at the edge of the field, facing down towards the ocean. I walk down the hill toward his granite gravestone. It’s covered in… nature. Spray from the air that travels up from the sea. Grass clippings. Bird droppings. The minerals left behind when water evaporates. I take out a rag and clean Paul’s gravestone until the polish shines. Cleaning a grave always feels so ancient, ritualistic. I sit down in the grass, lean my back against his gravestone, and look out at the water. I breathe. And I think. And I feel. GUNATILLAKE: Breathe. Think. Feel. KALANITHI: My mind takes me to a moment here soon after Paul died. Cady was at the age where I took her everywhere in a Baby Bjorn carrier. Tucked close against my body, she slept, both of us still. The cemetery was the only place I could breathe easily. The first time Cady was able to walk down this hill herself, without falling, was a little under a year after Paul died. She was one and a half. I remember bringing Cady here on Paul’s birthday when she was three. She asked if she could put stickers on Paul’s gravestone. I hesitated briefly, but I let her. It made her happy to stick sparkly hearts onto the gray stone. And it made me happy. A place means different things to different people. We say that we’re going to a place, but it’s remarkable how much we bring to that place without even thinking about it. Seeing things just as they are has been one of the great lessons of my life. But it’s something that I’ve had to work at consciously, for years. The amazing thing about Cady – my funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl – is that she does it effortlessly. She doesn’t have anything to unlearn. To Cady, a cemetery is not sad. It’s just a place we go together, like the park or the library. She loves coming here. She gets excited every time she gets to see a deer, or pick up a snail. We lie in the grass. We talk about Paul. We tell stories. One day, I bring some flowers to put on his grave and Cady says, “Can I plant a flower garden?” She picks up each tulip and plants them one by one right into the ground. It’s that kind of place. She knows that her father died, or as grief experts tell you to explain to children, that “his body stopped working.” She doesn’t know that his not-working body is buried a few feet underneath this very ground. She knows about death, because sometimes bees die too and she finds their bodies. She doesn’t know that people think of death as scary, or sad. Things just are, for her. GUNATILLAKE: What just is, for you right now? KALANITHI: One day, Cady’s preschool teacher asks her class to draw portraits of their families. I wonder if she’ll draw the two of us, me and her. Instead, she draws three people and labels them “mom,” “dad,” “baby me.” There used to be three of us together, and now there are two of us. She knows that. She knows she has a dad. But she knows she has to be a baby if Paul’s going to be in the picture. That’s just how it is. Things just are for her. Or things just are not. I wish Paul were here, and I think a lot about what things would be like if he were. I miss his partnership, his counsel raising a kid. I miss him physically; I now have a bed that fits two people, and I’m one person inside of it. For me there’s an empty space. For Cady, Paul is an anchor. She drew that picture knowing that’s where she came from. But at the same time she’s not yearning for a different family. One afternoon, Cady finds a little golden bell on our bookshelf, with a thread on it, and asks me what it is. It’s a party gift we gave out at our wedding, made in India, and it’s really beautiful. I say, “Remember how I told you about how Daddy and I had this big party for our wedding and all of our friends and family came to celebrate when we got married? Well, we gave everybody a present. They all got to take home a bell, like this one.” She immediately asks: “Was I at that party?” She’s a kid centered in her own little world, like all of us, I suppose. I say, “No, you weren’t even born yet. You weren’t even a baby yet.” And she says, “Oh, yeah, that’s because I was dead then.” My mind is blown. Cady knows people are either alive or dead. She doesn’t know that death is often thought of as scary or sad. She knows her father used to be alive and now he’s dead. She knows that she’s now alive but that she didn’t used to be. And she knows that for a brief moment, she and her dad overlapped, as living people, after she was born and before he died. For me, talking about Paul with Cady is part of my job as her mom – for her sake and his. I want Cady to know his story and know it’s okay to ask about him. Every night, we read books before bedtime. I notice that Cady’s developing a keen understanding of the characters – Doc McStuffins, Peppa Pig, Little Pea. One night, I realize that’s what Paul is to her, a character she’s getting to know through stories. For her third birthday, I make her a picture book called “Cady and Her Daddy.” It starts “Once upon a time there was a little boy named Paul Kalanithi. Paul loved cats and dogs, and he loved to read. He wanted to learn new things and help people who were having a hard time. So Paul went to school to become a doctor.” It talks about us getting married, and about Cady’s birth: “Cady has brown eyes just like Daddy. She adores cats and dogs.” In the middle, I describe Paul’s grave, and there are pictures of it. The book says: “When Cady was still a baby, Daddy’s body stopped working and Daddy died. To help remember Daddy, Mommy and Cady visit Daddy’s grave. Sometimes the weather is sunny. Sometimes it’s windy... Sometimes they feel sad. Sometimes they feel happy. All of their feelings are okay.” She knows that she never really got to know Paul. But she’s getting to know him through my stories. The other day, she put on two mismatched shoes and I asked her why, and she said, “This is what me and my dad do.” And she’s right. My favorite memory of our time at the cemetery is when Cady and I visit during the Mexican holiday of the Day of the Dead. This cemetery is relatively new. The people buried here are buried recently, so the graves still get a lot of visitors. It feels like a community. In addition to a lot of Asian Americans, like Paul, there are a lot of Mexican-Americans. When we arrive on the Day of the Dead, the first thing we see is a taco truck, with a line of people. Bright-colored clothing and beautiful outfits. A mariachi band. Adults and children get their faces painted in the traditional fashion, to look like skulls, which is so interesting to see if you’re not used to it. Festive, joyful skulls dancing through a cemetery. It feels totally, totally right. We love community, and we love tacos, and we love being at Paul’s grave. Cady and I get two tacos each. We listen to the music and watch everyone celebrate. We walk over to Paul’s grave, and sit, and picnic. Cady gets a balloon and runs through the cemetery. It’s a real contrast, acting like that in a cemetery, but it feels totally normal and natural to Cady. And I think she’s the one who’s right. I used to think it was me who knew more than my daughter. That I had so much knowledge and so much to teach her. That her understanding was just this little subset of mine, that came mostly from me. But I was wrong. She sees things that I miss. She’s so easily led, and then she leads me. She doesn’t bring as many assumptions to situations, so it’s easier for her to see them as they are. For her, right now, at this age, things just are. I hope I grow up to be more like her. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Lucy’s story. There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy the freedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern between what it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. It’s a lot. To start our meditation, let’s take a moment to check in with how we’re feeling. We all have our own relationships with grief and loss and Lucy’s story may have brought up some stuff for you. It’s ok. Trust your instincts. Do what you need to do. And if it feels ok, let’s acknowledge our feelings, just as Lucy did. If you like you can give them a name: sadness, tenderness, blankness, wishing. Whatever emotions are here, just give them a name. And if you think it’d help and it feels ok, why not place a hand on your heart. Feeling your hand there and breathing. Actually, take a few breaths here. Connecting with what is happening for you right now: the emotions, the physical sensations. We all hold assumptions, views, ideas, and it’s through these that we filter the world. It’s just the result of having a mind and living a life. Filters have their value and their place. But the ones we carry around are not the only ways of experiencing things. Let’s be more like Cady. Let’s be more direct. What’s here? For me right now, what’s here is some calm, some interest. What’s not here is sadness. A little while ago, while listening to Lucy’s story, I felt a twinge of sadness. But it’s not here now. What’s here for you? And what’s not here? And can you be ok with it all? Let’s keep connections alive. Is there someone close to you that you’ve lost? And is there a story, something about them that’s made you how you are today? For Cady it’s wearing mismatched shoes. If there’s something like that for you, bring it to mind. And again, if you like you can place a hand gently on your chest, your heart. Things just are. Or they are not. Breathe. Think. Feel. Sometimes we feel happy. Sometimes we feel sad. All of these feelings are ok. It’s all ok.
Dr. Lucy Kalanithi is a Clinical Assistant Professor of Medicine at the Stanford University School of Medicine and the widow of Dr. Paul Kalanithi, author of the bestselling memoir "When Breath Becomes Air," to which she wrote the epilogue. Drawing on experiences as a physician and caregiver, she has interests in health care value, meaning in medicine, patient-centered care and end-of-life care. Dr. Kalanithi is a Fellow of the American College of Physicians and an honoree of Mass General Cancer Center's the one hundred. She serves on leadership boards for TEDMED, the American College of Physicians and the Coalition to Transform Advanced Care.
LUCY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
LUCY KALANITHI
About Lucy Kalanithi
“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy the freedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern betweenwhat it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
From the closing meditation
About Lucy Kalanithi
connection
Lucy Kalanithi
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Clarity
LUCY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
connection
LUCY KALANITHI
LUCY KALANITHI: Seeing things just as they are has been one of the great lessons of my life. But it’s something that I’ve had to work at consciously for years. The amazing thing about Cady – my funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl – is that she does it effortlessly. She doesn’t have anything to unlearn. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Lucy Kalanithi is an assistant professor of medicine at Stanford Medical School in California, and the widow of Paul Kalanithi, whose posthumous memoir When Breath Becomes Air, I remember reading shortly after it was published in 2016. The story she shares with us here is very special. It’s about how much wisdom and delight there can be – even when we’re surrounded by tragic loss – when we see life and death through the eyes of a child. Eyes unburdened. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Some of the meditation prompts I’ll share during this story may work really well for you. Others, less so. That’s okay. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. KALANITHI: The drive from my house to the cemetery is less than ten minutes. I wind up the Santa Cruz mountains, and then come down just a little bit on the other side. But it feels like a very different place. The weather is different. This is the windward side of the mountain, and it’s colder and more variable than where I live. But today, it’s sunny and I can see five miles out, all the way to the ocean. My emotions are different here. For me, the cemetery is always a physical place where I can feel my feelings. I can’t always predict them before I arrive. Sadness. Yearning. Gratitude. Remembrance. Today, I feel calm. I was a little stressed on the drive, but the moment I get out of my car and take my first breath of the air on this side of the mountain, my body relaxes. I hear the gentle sound of the wind and the squeaky chattering of the chipmunks. I’ve brought my daughter Cady with me to visit her father. She’s four. There are things that children grow up into. Things like feeling part of a family, belonging to a religion, thinking that reading books is important, loving animals. Cady will grow up into the idea of visiting a grave. She won't remember not knowing it. Paul is buried at the edge of the field, facing down towards the ocean. I walk down the hill toward his granite gravestone. It’s covered in… nature. Spray from the air that travels up from the sea. Grass clippings. Bird droppings. The minerals left behind when water evaporates. I take out a rag and clean Paul’s gravestone until the polish shines. Cleaning a grave always feels so ancient, ritualistic. I sit down in the grass, lean my back against his gravestone, and look out at the water. I breathe. And I think. And I feel. GUNATILLAKE: Breathe. Think. Feel. KALANITHI: My mind takes me to a moment here soon after Paul died. Cady was at the age where I took her everywhere in a Baby Bjorn carrier. Tucked close against my body, she slept, both of us still. The cemetery was the only place I could breathe easily. The first time Cady was able to walk down this hill herself, without falling, was a little under a year after Paul died. She was one and a half. I remember bringing Cady here on Paul’s birthday when she was three. She asked if she could put stickers on Paul’s gravestone. I hesitated briefly, but I let her. It made her happy to stick sparkly hearts onto the gray stone. And it made me happy. A place means different things to different people. We say that we’re going to a place, but it’s remarkable how much we bring to that place without even thinking about it. Seeing things just as they are has been one of the great lessons of my life. But it’s something that I’ve had to work at consciously, for years. The amazing thing about Cady – my funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl – is that she does it effortlessly. She doesn’t have anything to unlearn. To Cady, a cemetery is not sad. It’s just a place we go together, like the park or the library. She loves coming here. She gets excited every time she gets to see a deer, or pick up a snail. We lie in the grass. We talk about Paul. We tell stories. One day, I bring some flowers to put on his grave and Cady says, “Can I plant a flower garden?” She picks up each tulip and plants them one by one right into the ground. It’s that kind of place. She knows that her father died, or as grief experts tell you to explain to children, that “his body stopped working.” She doesn’t know that his not-working body is buried a few feet underneath this very ground. She knows about death, because sometimes bees die too and she finds their bodies. She doesn’t know that people think of death as scary, or sad. Things just are, for her. GUNATILLAKE: What just is, for you right now? KALANITHI: One day, Cady’s preschool teacher asks her class to draw portraits of their families. I wonder if she’ll draw the two of us, me and her. Instead, she draws three people and labels them “mom,” “dad,” “baby me.” There used to be three of us together, and now there are two of us. She knows that. She knows she has a dad. But she knows she has to be a baby if Paul’s going to be in the picture. That’s just how it is. Things just are for her. Or things just are not. I wish Paul were here, and I think a lot about what things would be like if he were. I miss his partnership, his counsel raising a kid. I miss him physically; I now have a bed that fits two people, and I’m one person inside of it. For me there’s an empty space. For Cady, Paul is an anchor. She drew that picture knowing that’s where she came from. But at the same time she’s not yearning for a different family. One afternoon, Cady finds a little golden bell on our bookshelf, with a thread on it, and asks me what it is. It’s a party gift we gave out at our wedding, made in India, and it’s really beautiful. I say, “Remember how I told you about how Daddy and I had this big party for our wedding and all of our friends and family came to celebrate when we got married? Well, we gave everybody a present. They all got to take home a bell, like this one.” She immediately asks: “Was I at that party?” She’s a kid centered in her own little world, like all of us, I suppose. I say, “No, you weren’t even born yet. You weren’t even a baby yet.” And she says, “Oh, yeah, that’s because I was dead then.” My mind is blown. Cady knows people are either alive or dead. She doesn’t know that death is often thought of as scary or sad. She knows her father used to be alive and now he’s dead. She knows that she’s now alive but that she didn’t used to be. And she knows that for a brief moment, she and her dad overlapped, as living people, after she was born and before he died. For me, talking about Paul with Cady is part of my job as her mom – for her sake and his. I want Cady to know his story and know it’s okay to ask about him. Every night, we read books before bedtime. I notice that Cady’s developing a keen understanding of the characters – Doc McStuffins, Peppa Pig, Little Pea. One night, I realize that’s what Paul is to her, a character she’s getting to know through stories. For her third birthday, I make her a picture book called “Cady and Her Daddy.” It starts “Once upon a time there was a little boy named Paul Kalanithi. Paul loved cats and dogs, and he loved to read. He wanted to learn new things and help people who were having a hard time. So Paul went to school to become a doctor.” It talks about us getting married, and about Cady’s birth: “Cady has brown eyes just like Daddy. She adores cats and dogs.” In the middle, I describe Paul’s grave, and there are pictures of it. The book says: “When Cady was still a baby, Daddy’s body stopped working and Daddy died. To help remember Daddy, Mommy and Cady visit Daddy’s grave. Sometimes the weather is sunny. Sometimes it’s windy... Sometimes they feel sad. Sometimes they feel happy. All of their feelings are okay.” She knows that she never really got to know Paul. But she’s getting to know him through my stories. The other day, she put on two mismatched shoes and I asked her why, and she said, “This is what me and my dad do.” And she’s right. My favorite memory of our time at the cemetery is when Cady and I visit during the Mexican holiday of the Day of the Dead. This cemetery is relatively new. The people buried here are buried recently, so the graves still get a lot of visitors. It feels like a community. In addition to a lot of Asian Americans, like Paul, there are a lot of Mexican-Americans. When we arrive on the Day of the Dead, the first thing we see is a taco truck, with a line of people. Bright-colored clothing and beautiful outfits. A mariachi band. Adults and children get their faces painted in the traditional fashion, to look like skulls, which is so interesting to see if you’re not used to it. Festive, joyful skulls dancing through a cemetery. It feels totally, totally right. We love community, and we love tacos, and we love being at Paul’s grave. Cady and I get two tacos each. We listen to the music and watch everyone celebrate. We walk over to Paul’s grave, and sit, and picnic. Cady gets a balloon and runs through the cemetery. It’s a real contrast, acting like that in a cemetery, but it feels totally normal and natural to Cady. And I think she’s the one who’s right. I used to think it was me who knew more than my daughter. That I had so much knowledge and so much to teach her. That her understanding was just this little subset of mine, that came mostly from me. But I was wrong. She sees things that I miss. She’s so easily led, and then she leads me. She doesn’t bring as many assumptions to situations, so it’s easier for her to see them as they are. For her, right now, at this age, things just are. I hope I grow up to be more like her. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Lucy’s story. There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy the freedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern between what it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. It’s a lot. To start our meditation, let’s take a moment to check in with how we’re feeling. We all have our own relationships with grief and loss and Lucy’s story may have brought up some stuff for you. It’s ok. Trust your instincts. Do what you need to do. And if it feels ok, let’s acknowledge our feelings, just as Lucy did. If you like you can give them a name: sadness, tenderness, blankness, wishing. Whatever emotions are here, just give them a name. And if you think it’d help and it feels ok, why not place a hand on your heart. Feeling your hand there and breathing. Actually, take a few breaths here. Connecting with what is happening for you right now: the emotions, the physical sensations. We all hold assumptions, views, ideas, and it’s through these that we filter the world. It’s just the result of having a mind and living a life. Filters have their value and their place. But the ones we carry around are not the only ways of experiencing things. Let’s be more like Cady. Let’s be more direct. What’s here? For me right now, what’s here is some calm, some interest. What’s not here is sadness. A little while ago, while listening to Lucy’s story, I felt a twinge of sadness. But it’s not here now. What’s here for you? And what’s not here? And can you be ok with it all? Let’s keep connections alive. Is there someone close to you that you’ve lost? And is there a story, something about them that’s made you how you are today? For Cady it’s wearing mismatched shoes. If there’s something like that for you, bring it to mind. And again, if you like you can place a hand gently on your chest, your heart. Things just are. Or they are not. Breathe. Think. Feel. Sometimes we feel happy. Sometimes we feel sad. All of these feelings are ok. It’s all ok.
Lucy Kalanithi is a doctor and the widow of Paul Kalanithi, author of the memoir When Breath Becomes Air. Her Meditative Story becomes a coda to his book. She is moved to share it because, as she says: "I try to make life deeper and richer by opening up space to talk about hard things."
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LUCY KALANITHI
Dr. Lucy Kalanithi is a Clinical Assistant Professor of Medicine at the Stanford University School of Medicine and the widow of Dr. Paul Kalanithi, author of the bestselling memoir "When Breath Becomes Air," to which she wrote the epilogue. Drawing on experiences as a physician and caregiver, she has interests in health care value, meaning in medicine, patient-centered care and end-of-life care. Dr. Kalanithi is a Fellow of the American College of Physicians and an honoree of Mass General Cancer Center's the one hundred. She serves on leadership boards for TEDMED, the American College of Physicians and the Coalition to Transform Advanced Care.
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Lucy Kalanithi shares a story about how much delight and wisdom there can be — even when we’re surrounded by tragic loss — when we see life and death through the eyes of a child.
Episode Transcript
My funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl
acceptance
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Lucy Kalanithi is a doctor and the widow of Paul Kalanithi, author of the memoir When Breath Becomes Air. Her Meditative Story becomes a coda to his book. She is moved to share it because, as she says: "I try to make life deeper and richer by opening up space to talk about hard things."
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From the closing meditation
Dr. Lucy Kalanithi is a Clinical Assistant Professor of Medicine at the Stanford University School of Medicine and the widow of Dr. Paul Kalanithi, author of the bestselling memoir "When Breath Becomes Air," to which she wrote the epilogue. Drawing on experiences as a physician and caregiver, she has interests in health care value, meaning in medicine, patient-centered care and end-of-life care. Dr. Kalanithi is a Fellow of the American College of Physicians and an honoree of Mass General Cancer Center's the one hundred. She serves on leadership boards for TEDMED, the American College of Physicians and the Coalition to Transform Advanced Care.
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Pico Iyer is a travel writer based in Japan. But he wasn’t always – one fateful assignment launched his entire career ... and his life. He’s moved to share his Meditative Story because this moment almost passed him by. He had to make an effort, a choice to listen to his heart. As he says, "The busier you are, the more you have to step away from busy-ness, from speed, to see what’s truly important in life. After all, it’s the open spaces, the moments when you lose yourself, that help you to find contentment, joy, and peace of mind.
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awareness
centeredness
Episode Transcript
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Travel to Southeast Asia with writer Pico Iyer as he reveals what happens when we allow ourselves to be pulled forward into the unknown, when we wander and let ourselves experience the magic of the scenes unfolding around us.
Pico Iyer
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Travel to Southeast Asia with writer Pico Iyer as he reveals what happens when we allow ourselves to be pulled forward into the unknown, when we wander and let ourselves experience the magic of the scenes unfolding around us.
From the closing meditation
About Pico Iyer
About Pico Iyer
“Let’s start by settling your attention into your body. Letting it all come back. Whether you’re sitting, standing, moving or lying down, just let your awareness fill your whole body. Being open to whatever’s happening. Letting it happen. The body breathing in. The body breathing out. How does your body feel right now? Is there agitation or relaxation? Is there tension or a sense of peace? We’re not trying to create anything, we’re just being open to what’s here and noticing it whatever it is.”
A home that had been waiting for me forever
From the closing meditation
Episode Transcript
“Let’s start by settling your attention into your body. Letting it all come back. Whether you’re sitting, standing, moving or lying down, just let your awareness fill your whole body. Being open to whatever’s happening. Letting it happen. The body breathing in. The body breathing out. How does your body feel right now? Is there agitation or relaxation? Is there tension or a sense of peace? We’re not trying to create anything, we’re just being open to what’s here and noticing it whatever it is.”
Openness
“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy thefreedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern betweenwhat it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Pico Iyer
About Pico Iyer
A home that had been waiting for me forever
centeredness
Pico Iyer
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PICO IYER: I couldn’t tell you why but I felt I knew the place. I knew it better than the English road on which I’d been born, better than the apartment where I lived now on 20th Street. It was like a home that had been waiting for me forever. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Thirty years ago, the travel writer Pico Iyer booked himself on a trip to Southeast Asia. It was a trip that would transform his life in ways he couldn’t have imagined. Visiting foreign places will often put our senses on high alert. In the story you’re about to hear, Pico reveals what can happen when we wander and allow the world to unfold around us. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. At times while listening, you might find that your attention has drifted away. That’s ok. Just bring yourself back. Back to the sound of Pico’s voice. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your eyes open. Your senses open. Meeting the world. IYER: It was my first day ever in Southeast Asia. The Japan Airlines jet touched down, and I stepped out into the hot, spiced air, and then into a tiny, very congested airport. The rainy season was thick, impending, and I could smell diesel fuel and perfume and what might have been incense. As I walked out of the terminal, a small man ushered me towards a little minivan, and it rattled six of us through the night into Bangkok. I was 26, and on a four-week holiday from my 25th floor office in Midtown Manhattan. I looked around me as the darkness fell and I saw lanterns shivering in barely-lit alleyways. Open-front shops were selling indigo silks and small Buddhas, bowls of curry. And every now and then as we wended through the narrow streets, we came upon a golden temple, angel statues kneeling at its entrance, its elaborate roof flying off towards the heavens. This was like nowhere that I knew. I felt unsettled. Intrigued. Drawn closer. Anything could happen now. All my senses were on full alert. GUNATILLAKE: Take a moment to notice which of your senses is most alert right now? Is it sight? Or maybe it's your sense of smell or touch? IYER: Two hours later I was boarding an overnight train for the cool mountain city of Chiang Mai. Farmers were working in the rice-fields all around, next morning, as the sun came up over the mountains. And after I arrived in Chiang Mai, city of hilltop temples, I was greeted by a friendly stranger who promised a trip up to see the animists in the mountains. Again that eerie sense of not knowing what I was getting into but being pulled forward by that very sensation. I am glad I was young enough to follow the dare that life was throwing at me. By the time the sun set that evening, after a long day of climbing and climbing through piney forests, looking out over valleys and occasional wooden houses, I was in a tiny village above the clouds. Tribal leaders were pulling out pipes for opium from the darkness of their huts, and someone said that what they were cooking up was dog. The foreignness of the scene – three nights earlier I’d been walking through Times Square – opened every sense inside me very wide. It was cold sleeping on the slatted floor, and when we woke up the next morning, we were encircled by heavy mist. And so it went for the next twenty-six days. Before long I was walking around the mildewed, collapsing white colonial buildings of Rangoon, where there was a pair of opera glasses in the dusty lost-and-found case in the empty hotel, and the books on sale, yellow pages falling from their worn covers, came from 1933 or 1894. I took an even more rickety train up to the silent expanse of Bagan. There was just one sleepy hotel along the river, and a man standing with a horse-drawn cart as lightning crackled across the valley. Across the emptiness of the plains there were three thousand temples in all: ivory-white, earth-red, golden. GUNATILLAKE: Take a moment to notice how the temple lights twinkle. Their yellowy-white flares dance out from the glowing centers. One dims as the other brightens. Can you picture this in the distance? IYER: It really felt as if a door had opened upon a some part of me I had never seen before. I needed to walk through it and see what was waiting for me on the other side. My last week of this unexpected trip, I was full to bursting, and I just wanted to sort through my photos and my memories, share the magic and the romance with my friends. There’s another world inside our own, I thought. There is another world inside ourselves. On my flight back to JFK however, my Japan Airlines itinerary called for a layover at Narita Airport, near Tokyo. This was the last thing I wanted. And the layover was due to last twenty hours. So suddenly, after twenty-eight days of clamorous moments and exotic strangers I was faced with an empty space, nothing to fill it. I had no interest in seeing another airport town, but what else was there to do? I’d never be back in Japan. So I wandered outside – the day was fresh and blue, with the crisp outlines of early autumn – and I waited for the small white van. Twenty minutes later, I got out on a busy street, cars racing past as in New York City, rows of vending-machines outside tall concrete buildings. And then I spotted a small bridge. I walked across it and suddenly I was in a much quieter area: intimate, human-scaled. GUNATILLAKE: In these new surroundings take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go. IYER: The houses were mostly wooden, very close together. Shoes were laid out outside their entrances and inside were tatami mats, the smell of noodles. Through the back windows I could catch flashes of gold and scarlet – the first colors of the autumn. Instantly I was awake, again, taking everything in. Or at least brought back to that more attentive self that my routine self so often sleepwalks past. I recognized something here, I didn’t need a map. So I made my way through the riddle of narrow streets – I can see and feel them even now, 33 years on – and came upon a vast, white-pebble courtyard. In front of me was a wooden meditation hall. All around were silver gravestones. In front of the hall was a deep black tureen of sorts, in which gold-tipped sticks of incense were flaking off into a bed of ash. I slipped off my shoes and I stepped into the hall. There was almost nothing there; liberation. The fewer things there were to distract me, the fuller, the more alive I felt. I was nowhere but this tatami mat, smelling the incense, listening for footfalls. GUNATILLAKE: How alive do you feel? What can you hear? Let the sounds in your environment just come to you. There’s no need to go out and get them. Just receive the sounds. IYER: I didn’t know then that Narita Temple is actually one of the most celebrated pilgrimage sites in all Japan, a magnet for a thousand years. I couldn’t have guessed that the Dalai Lama sent Tibetans to study there. I simply knew that something in me had fallen away – some armor, perhaps – and in the process some window had opened, onto a much larger landscape. I followed a path then around to the temple’s large garden, and there I saw a flock of kindergarteners, in pink and blue caps, scattering silently across a lawn, collecting autumn leaves. The air was sharp, clear, but I could feel that first pinch of coming cold and dark. I couldn’t tell you why but I felt I knew the place. I knew it better than the English road on which I’d been born, better than the apartment where I lived now on 20th Street. It was like a home that had been waiting for me forever. Thailand and Macau, Hong Kong and Burma, they’d all quickened me beyond expectation. Each day a greater wonder than the day before. And yet the place that really changed my life was the place I had never wanted to go to. And as I boarded the 12 hour flight back to JFK, all I could think was: How? How can I get myself back in to that autumn scene? It felt like a painting with a cardboard cutout. Which was missing one final element. That element was me. It took me three full years to disentangle myself from my job, but finally I did and I quit my 25th-floor office for an empty single room on the backstreets of Kyoto. I’ve been living in Japan now more than thirty years and I never look back at the life I left. Not to have returned here would have meant being in exile for all my life. We all have secret homes, I believe, and the beauty, the promise of our global world is that sometimes we are able to find them – and thanks to technology, even to inhabit them. The places where we belong, the places that belong to us, they’re not always the ones with which we have official affiliations. They’re the places that uplift and transport us for no good reason at all. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Pico’s story. Let’s start by settling your attention into your body. Letting it all come back. Whether you’re sitting, standing, moving or lying down, just let your awareness fill your whole body. Being open to whatever’s happening. Letting it happen. The body breathing in. The body breathing out. How does your body feel right now? Is there agitation or relaxation? Is there tension or a sense of peace? We’re not trying to create anything, we’re just being open to what’s here and noticing it whatever it is. If you’re eyes aren’t already open, please open them now. How are they feeling? Do your eyes feel tired or do they feel bright? Can you notice how you’re seeing the world right now? Is your sense of sight focused or wide? What’s grabbing your attention? Just being interested in what sight and seeing is like right now. Moving on from sight and switching, opening out to hearing. There are my words coming and going, but what else is there? What sounds can you notice around you? Being open. Letting the sounds come to you, no need to go out and grab them. Finally, the inner world. How are you feeling? Is your mind busy with thoughts or is it fairly quiet? If there aren’t any particularly obvious emotions present then being open and noticing that too. What you notice is not as important as the quality of the noticing itself. The quality of the awareness. A world of experience always available. A world full of secret homes. All we have to do is be open, and see them.
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PICO'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Pico Iyer is a travel writer based in Japan. But he wasn’t always – one fateful assignment launched his entire career ... and his life. He’s moved to share his Meditative Story because this moment almost passed him by. He had to make an effort, a choice to listen to his heart. As he says, "The busier you are, the more you have to step away from busy-ness, from speed, to see what’s truly important in life. After all, it’s the open spaces, the moments when you lose yourself, that help you to find contentment, joy, and peace of mind.
awareness
Embracing the journey’s adventure without attachment to its outcome.
Listen
awareness
SUBSCRIBE
centeredness
Openness
A home that had been waiting for me forever
Episode Transcript
“I couldn’t tell you why but I felt I knew the place. I knew it better than the English road on which I’d been born, better than the apartment where I lived now on 20th Street. It was like a home that had been waiting for me forever." AD ACT I The experience you’re about to have exists because our sponsor Salesforce believes in it — deeply. Salesforce brings companies and customers together, helping you deliver personalized customer experiences on one integrated platform. What you may not know is that equality is a core value at Salesforce. They believe that businesses can be a powerful platform for change. And that change starts inside ourselves. All of us. How often do you move through your day without really noticing the people around you? Without really connecting with them? How often do you give others in the room space to respond? Too often, we move quickly without being mindful of the other voices. But it’s that mindfulness about the people around you that creates space for trust and connection needed to start making change. Later in the show, I’ll share a micro-action you can take to spark this kind of change. Thank you, Salesforce, for being a part of Meditative Story in this most thoughtful way. STORY INTRODUCTION Thirty years ago, the travel writer - [slowly with emphasis] Pico Iyer - booked himself on a trip to Southeast Asia. It was a trip that would transform his life in ways he couldn’t have imagined. Visiting foreign places will often put our senses on high alert. In the story you’re about to hear, Pico reveals what can happen when we wander and allow the world to unfold around us. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. At times while listening, you might find that your attention has drifted away. That’s ok. Just bring yourself back. Back to the sound of Pico’s voice. STORY INTRODUCTION (CONT) The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your eyes open. Your senses open. Meeting the world. STORY PICO IYER: It was my first day ever in Southeast Asia. The Japan Airlines jet touched down, and I stepped out into the hot, spiced air, and then into a tiny, very congested airport. The rainy season was thick, impending, and I could smell diesel fuel and perfume and what might have been incense. As I walked out of the terminal, a small man ushered me towards a little minivan, and it rattled six of us through the night into Bangkok. I was 26, and on a four-week holiday from my 25th floor office in Midtown Manhattan. I looked around me as the darkness fell and I saw lanterns shivering in barely-lit alleyways. Open-front shops were selling indigo silks and small Buddhas, bowls of curry. And every now and then, as we wended through the narrow streets, we came upon a golden temple, angel statues kneeling at its entrance, its elaborate roof flying off towards the heavens. This was like nowhere that I knew. I felt unsettled. Intrigued. Drawn closer. Anything could happen now. All my senses were on full alert. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION B: Take a moment to notice which of your senses is most alert right now? Is it sight? Or maybe it's your sense of smell or touch? IYER: Two hours later I was boarding an overnight train for the cool mountain city of Chiang Mai. Farmers were working in the rice-fields all around next morning as the sun came up over the mountains. And after I arrived in Chiang Mai, city of hilltop temples, I was greeted by a friendly stranger who promised a trip up to see the animists in the mountains. Again that eerie sense of not knowing what I was getting into but being pulled forward by that very sensation. I am glad I was young enough to follow the dare that life was throwing at me. By the time the sun set that evening, after a long day of climbing and climbing through piney forests, looking out over valleys and occasional wooden houses, I was in a tiny village above the clouds. Tribal leaders were pulling out pipes for opium from the darkness of their huts and someone said that what they were cooking up was dog. The foreignness of the scene. Three nights earlier I’d been walking through Times Square opened every sense inside me very wide. It was cold sleeping on the slatted floor, and when we woke up the next morning, we were encircled by heavy mist. And so it went for the next twenty-six days. Before long I was walking around the mildewed, collapsing white colonial buildings of Rangoon, where there was a pair of opera glasses in the dusty lost-and-found case in the empty hotel, and the books on sale, yellow pages falling from their worn covers, came from 1933 or 1894. I took an even more rickety train up to the silent expanse of Bagan. There was just one sleepy hotel along the river, and a man standing with a horse-drawn cart as lightning crackled across the valley. Across the emptiness of the plains there were three thousand temples in all, ivory-white, earth-red, golden. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION A: Take a moment to notice how the temple lights twinkle. Their yellowy-white flares dance out from the glowing centers. One dims as the other brightens. Can you picture this in the distance? IYER: It really felt as if some door had opened upon a some part of me I had never seen before. I needed to walk through it and see what was waiting for me on the other side. My last week of this unexpected trip, I was full to bursting, and I just wanted to sort through my photos and my memories, share the magic and the romance with my friends. There’s another world inside our own, I thought. There is another world inside ourselves. On my flight back to JFK however, my Japan AirLines itinerary called for a layover at Narita Airport, near Tokyo. It was the last thing I wanted. And the layover was due to last twenty hours. So suddenly, after twenty-eight days of clamorous moments and exotic strangers I was faced with an empty space, nothing to fill it. I had no interest in seeing another airport town, but what else was there to do? I’d never be back in Japan. So I wandered outside—the day was fresh and blue, with the crisp outlines of early autumn—and I waited for the small white van. Twenty minutes later, I got out on a busy street, cars racing past as in New York City, rows of vending-machines outside tall concrete buildings. And then I spotted a small bridge. I walked across it and suddenly I was in a much quieter quarter, intimate human-scaled. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION A: In these new surroundings take a deep breath [pause], hold it [pause] and let it go. IYER: The houses were mostly wooden, very close together. Shoes were laid outside their entrances and inside were tatami mats, the smell of noodles. Through the back windows I could catch flashes of gold and scarlet, the first colors of the autumn. Instantly I was awake, again, taking everything in. Or at least brought back to that more attentive self that my routine self so often sleepwalks past. I recognized something here, I didn’t need a map. So I made my way through the riddle of narrow streets—I can see and feel them even now, 33 years on—and came upon a vast, white-pebble courtyard. In front of me was a wooden meditation hall. All around were silver gravestones. In front of the hall was a deep black tureen of sorts in which gold-tipped sticks of incense were flaking off into a bed of ash. I slipped off my shoes and I stepped into the hall. There was almost nothing there; liberation. The fewer things there were to distract me, the fuller and the more alive I felt. I was nowhere but this tatami mat, smelling the incense, listening for footfalls. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION B: How alive do you feel? What can you hear? Let the sounds in your environment just come to you. There’s no need to go out and get them. Just receive the sounds. IYER: I didn’t know then that Narita temple is actually one of the most celebrated pilgrimage sites in all Japan, a magnet for a thousand years. I couldn’t have guessed that the Dalai Lama sent Tibetans to study there. I simply knew that something in me had fallen away—some armor, perhaps—and in the process some window had opened, onto a much larger landscape. I followed a path around to the temple’s large garden, and there I saw a flock of kindergarteners, in pink and blue caps, scattering silently across a lawn, collecting autumn leaves. The air was sharp, clear, but I could feel the first pinch of coming cold and dark. I couldn’t tell you why but I felt I knew the place. I knew it better than the English road on which I’d been born, better than the apartment where I lived now on 20th Street. It was like a home that had been waiting for me forever. Thailand and Macau, Hong Kong and Burma, they’d all quickened me beyond expectation. Each day a greater wonder than the day before. And yet the place that really changed my life was the place I had never wanted to go to. And as I boarded the 12 hour flight back to JFK, all I could think was how? How can I get myself back in to that autumn scene? It felt like a painting with a cardboard cutout. Which was missing one final element. That element was me. It took me three full years to disentangle myself from my job, but finally I did and I quit my 25th-floor office for an empty single room on the backstreets of Kyoto. I’ve been living in Japan now more than thirty years and I never look back at the life I left. Not to have returned here would have meant being in exile for all my life. We all have secret homes I believe and the beauty, the promise of our global world is that sometimes we are able to find them, and thanks to technology, even to inhabit them. The places where we belong, the places that belong to us, they’re not always the ones with which we have official affiliations. They’re the places that uplift and transport us for no good reason at all. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Pico’s story. In just a moment, I’ll guide you through a closing meditation. After that, I’ll share a micro-action that you can take into your day, inspired by the mindfulness practices of our sponsor, Salesforce. CLOSING MEDITATION Let’s start by settling your attention into your body. Letting it all come back. Whether you’re sitting, standing, moving or lying down, just let your awareness fill your whole body. Being open to whatever’s happening. Letting it happen. The body breathing in. The body breathing out. How does your body feel right now? Is there agitation or relaxation? Is there tension or a sense of peace? We’re not trying to create anything, we’re just being open to what’s here and noticing it whatever it is. If you’re eyes aren’t already open, please open them now. How are they feeling? Do your eyes feel tired or do they feel bright? Can you notice how you’re seeing the world right now? Is your sense of sight focused or wide? What’s grabbing your attention? Just being interested in what sight and seeing is like right now. Moving on from sight and switching, opening out to hearing. There are my words coming and going, but what else is there? What sounds can you notice around you? Being open. Letting the sounds come to you, no need to go out and grab them. Finally, the inner world. How are you feeling? Is your mind busy with thoughts or is it fairly quiet? If there aren’t any particularly obvious emotions present then being open and noticing that too. What you notice is not as important as the quality of the noticing itself. The quality of the awareness. [pause] A world of experience always available. A world full of secret homes. All we have to do is be open, and see them. AD ACT II GUNATILLAKE: Earlier, I mentioned how you can bring mindfulness to your connection with others. Our sponsor, Salesforce, practices mindfulness as an essential part of their culture. They’ve asked me to share one powerful microstep you can try — to foster that connection. It’s simple: Once a day, consider someone else’s perspective. Whether it’s someone you tend to pass by, or someone you struggle to feel connection with — thinking about their experiences can help you build a new relationship, let go of a grudge, or expand your own perspective. It can be as straightforward as asking yourself, “What might this person be feeling?” And with that simple action, our gratitude goes out to Salesforce for supporting storytellers who open up something within us, and spark the kind of positive change that cascades out into the world. Powerful perspectives — shared through a story — make change possible. THANK YOU AND CLOSING CREDITS Meditative Story is a WaitWhat original in partnership with Thrive Global. The show is produced at the studio inside SY Partners in New York. Our executive producers are Deron Triff, June Cohen and Arianna Huffington. Our producers are Sabrina Farhi, Dan Katz, Emily Johnson, Marina (KUH-DECK-ULL), and Juliana (JULI-AH-NA) Stone. Our supervising producers are Jai Punjabi and Peter Koechley (KECK-LY). Our curator is Cary Goldstein. Original music and sound design is by the Holladay Brothers. Mixing and mastering by Bryan Pyew. Special thanks to Alison Kreusch (KROOSH), Steven Sherill, Anne Sachs, Danny Shea and Sarah Sandman. And I’m Rohan Gunatillake, creator of the Buddhify meditation app and your host. Visit [slow down here] meditativestory - dot - com to find the transcript for this episode.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Pico iyer
Pico Iyer is the author of two novels and thirteen works of nonfiction on subjects ranging from the Cuban Revolution to Islamic mysticism, from Graham Greene to Canadian visions of diversity, from forgotten nations to the 21st-century global order. His books have been translated into 23 languages, and his 2008 meditation on the XIVth Dalai Lama, "The Open Road," and his TED Book, "The Art of Stillness," were best-sellers. An essayist for Time since 1986, he is a constant contributor to The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, The Financial Times and more than 250 others worldwide. In 2019 he is bringing out two new books about Japan ("Autumn Light and A Beginner’s Guide to Japan") and one on Singapore ("This Could Be Home").
Pico Iyer is a travel writer based in Japan. But he wasn’t always – one fateful assignment launched his entire career ... and his life. He’s moved to share his Meditative Story because this moment almost passed him by. He had to make an effort, a choice to listen to his heart. As he says, "The busier you are, the more you have to step away from busy-ness, from speed, to see what’s truly important in life. After all, it’s the open spaces, the moments when you lose yourself, that help you to find contentment, joy, and peace of mind."
Embracing the journey’s adventure without attachment to its outcome.
Pico iyer
Openness
Pico Iyer
PICO'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Pico Iyer is the author of two novels and thirteen works of nonfiction on subjects ranging from the Cuban Revolution to Islamic mysticism, from Graham Greene to Canadian visions of diversity, from forgotten nations to the 21st-century global order. His books have been translated into 23 languages, and his 2008 meditation on the XIVth Dalai Lama, "The Open Road," and his TED Book, "The Art of Stillness," were best-sellers. An essayist for Time since 1986, he is a constant contributor to The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, The Financial Times and more than 250 others worldwide. In 2019 he is bringing out two new books about Japan ("Autumn Light and A Beginner’s Guide to Japan") and one on Singapore ("This Could Be Home").
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
From the closing meditation
“I couldn’t tell you why but I felt I knew the place. I knew it better than the English road on which I’d been born, better than the apartment where I lived now on 20th Street. It was like a home that had been waiting for me forever." AD ACT I The experience you’re about to have exists because our sponsor Salesforce believes in it — deeply. Salesforce brings companies and customers together, helping you deliver personalized customer experiences on one integrated platform. What you may not know is that equality is a core value at Salesforce. They believe that businesses can be a powerful platform for change. And that change starts inside ourselves. All of us. How often do you move through your day without really noticing the people around you? Without really connecting with them? How often do you give others in the room space to respond? Too often, we move quickly without being mindful of the other voices. But it’s that mindfulness about the people around you that creates space for trust and connection needed to start making change. Later in the show, I’ll share a micro-action you can take to spark this kind of change. Thank you, Salesforce, for being a part of Meditative Story in this most thoughtful way. STORY INTRODUCTION Thirty years ago, the travel writer - [slowly with emphasis] Pico Iyer - booked himself on a trip to Southeast Asia. It was a trip that would transform his life in ways he couldn’t have imagined. Visiting foreign places will often put our senses on high alert. In the story you’re about to hear, Pico reveals what can happen when we wander and allow the world to unfold around us. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. At times while listening, you might find that your attention has drifted away. That’s ok. Just bring yourself back. Back to the sound of Pico’s voice. STORY INTRODUCTION (CONT) The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your eyes open. Your senses open. Meeting the world. STORY PICO IYER: It was my first day ever in Southeast Asia. The Japan Airlines jet touched down, and I stepped out into the hot, spiced air, and then into a tiny, very congested airport. The rainy season was thick, impending, and I could smell diesel fuel and perfume and what might have been incense. As I walked out of the terminal, a small man ushered me towards a little minivan, and it rattled six of us through the night into Bangkok. I was 26, and on a four-week holiday from my 25th floor office in Midtown Manhattan. I looked around me as the darkness fell and I saw lanterns shivering in barely-lit alleyways. Open-front shops were selling indigo silks and small Buddhas, bowls of curry. And every now and then, as we wended through the narrow streets, we came upon a golden temple, angel statues kneeling at its entrance, its elaborate roof flying off towards the heavens. This was like nowhere that I knew. I felt unsettled. Intrigued. Drawn closer. Anything could happen now. All my senses were on full alert. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION B: Take a moment to notice which of your senses is most alert right now? Is it sight? Or maybe it's your sense of smell or touch? IYER: Two hours later I was boarding an overnight train for the cool mountain city of Chiang Mai. Farmers were working in the rice-fields all around next morning as the sun came up over the mountains. And after I arrived in Chiang Mai, city of hilltop temples, I was greeted by a friendly stranger who promised a trip up to see the animists in the mountains. Again that eerie sense of not knowing what I was getting into but being pulled forward by that very sensation. I am glad I was young enough to follow the dare that life was throwing at me. By the time the sun set that evening, after a long day of climbing and climbing through piney forests, looking out over valleys and occasional wooden houses, I was in a tiny village above the clouds. Tribal leaders were pulling out pipes for opium from the darkness of their huts and someone said that what they were cooking up was dog. The foreignness of the scene. Three nights earlier I’d been walking through Times Square opened every sense inside me very wide. It was cold sleeping on the slatted floor, and when we woke up the next morning, we were encircled by heavy mist. And so it went for the next twenty-six days. Before long I was walking around the mildewed, collapsing white colonial buildings of Rangoon, where there was a pair of opera glasses in the dusty lost-and-found case in the empty hotel, and the books on sale, yellow pages falling from their worn covers, came from 1933 or 1894. I took an even more rickety train up to the silent expanse of Bagan. There was just one sleepy hotel along the river, and a man standing with a horse-drawn cart as lightning crackled across the valley. Across the emptiness of the plains there were three thousand temples in all, ivory-white, earth-red, golden. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION A: Take a moment to notice how the temple lights twinkle. Their yellowy-white flares dance out from the glowing centers. One dims as the other brightens. Can you picture this in the distance? IYER: It really felt as if some door had opened upon a some part of me I had never seen before. I needed to walk through it and see what was waiting for me on the other side. My last week of this unexpected trip, I was full to bursting, and I just wanted to sort through my photos and my memories, share the magic and the romance with my friends. There’s another world inside our own, I thought. There is another world inside ourselves. On my flight back to JFK however, my Japan AirLines itinerary called for a layover at Narita Airport, near Tokyo. It was the last thing I wanted. And the layover was due to last twenty hours. So suddenly, after twenty-eight days of clamorous moments and exotic strangers I was faced with an empty space, nothing to fill it. I had no interest in seeing another airport town, but what else was there to do? I’d never be back in Japan. So I wandered outside—the day was fresh and blue, with the crisp outlines of early autumn—and I waited for the small white van. Twenty minutes later, I got out on a busy street, cars racing past as in New York City, rows of vending-machines outside tall concrete buildings. And then I spotted a small bridge. I walked across it and suddenly I was in a much quieter quarter, intimate human-scaled. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION A: In these new surroundings take a deep breath [pause], hold it [pause] and let it go. IYER: The houses were mostly wooden, very close together. Shoes were laid outside their entrances and inside were tatami mats, the smell of noodles. Through the back windows I could catch flashes of gold and scarlet, the first colors of the autumn. Instantly I was awake, again, taking everything in. Or at least brought back to that more attentive self that my routine self so often sleepwalks past. I recognized something here, I didn’t need a map. So I made my way through the riddle of narrow streets—I can see and feel them even now, 33 years on—and came upon a vast, white-pebble courtyard. In front of me was a wooden meditation hall. All around were silver gravestones. In front of the hall was a deep black tureen of sorts in which gold-tipped sticks of incense were flaking off into a bed of ash. I slipped off my shoes and I stepped into the hall. There was almost nothing there; liberation. The fewer things there were to distract me, the fuller and the more alive I felt. I was nowhere but this tatami mat, smelling the incense, listening for footfalls. GUNATILLAKE: MINDFULNESS PROMPT VERSION B: How alive do you feel? What can you hear? Let the sounds in your environment just come to you. There’s no need to go out and get them. Just receive the sounds. IYER: I didn’t know then that Narita temple is actually one of the most celebrated pilgrimage sites in all Japan, a magnet for a thousand years. I couldn’t have guessed that the Dalai Lama sent Tibetans to study there. I simply knew that something in me had fallen away—some armor, perhaps—and in the process some window had opened, onto a much larger landscape. I followed a path around to the temple’s large garden, and there I saw a flock of kindergarteners, in pink and blue caps, scattering silently across a lawn, collecting autumn leaves. The air was sharp, clear, but I could feel the first pinch of coming cold and dark. I couldn’t tell you why but I felt I knew the place. I knew it better than the English road on which I’d been born, better than the apartment where I lived now on 20th Street. It was like a home that had been waiting for me forever. Thailand and Macau, Hong Kong and Burma, they’d all quickened me beyond expectation. Each day a greater wonder than the day before. And yet the place that really changed my life was the place I had never wanted to go to. And as I boarded the 12 hour flight back to JFK, all I could think was how? How can I get myself back in to that autumn scene? It felt like a painting with a cardboard cutout. Which was missing one final element. That element was me. It took me three full years to disentangle myself from my job, but finally I did and I quit my 25th-floor office for an empty single room on the backstreets of Kyoto. I’ve been living in Japan now more than thirty years and I never look back at the life I left. Not to have returned here would have meant being in exile for all my life. We all have secret homes I believe and the beauty, the promise of our global world is that sometimes we are able to find them, and thanks to technology, even to inhabit them. The places where we belong, the places that belong to us, they’re not always the ones with which we have official affiliations. They’re the places that uplift and transport us for no good reason at all. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Pico’s story. In just a moment, I’ll guide you through a closing meditation. After that, I’ll share a micro-action that you can take into your day, inspired by the mindfulness practices of our sponsor, Salesforce. CLOSING MEDITATION Let’s start by settling your attention into your body. Letting it all come back. Whether you’re sitting, standing, moving or lying down, just let your awareness fill your whole body. Being open to whatever’s happening. Letting it happen. The body breathing in. The body breathing out. How does your body feel right now? Is there agitation or relaxation? Is there tension or a sense of peace? We’re not trying to create anything, we’re just being open to what’s here and noticing it whatever it is. If you’re eyes aren’t already open, please open them now. How are they feeling? Do your eyes feel tired or do they feel bright? Can you notice how you’re seeing the world right now? Is your sense of sight focused or wide? What’s grabbing your attention? Just being interested in what sight and seeing is like right now. Moving on from sight and switching, opening out to hearing. There are my words coming and going, but what else is there? What sounds can you notice around you? Being open. Letting the sounds come to you, no need to go out and grab them. Finally, the inner world. How are you feeling? Is your mind busy with thoughts or is it fairly quiet? If there aren’t any particularly obvious emotions present then being open and noticing that too. What you notice is not as important as the quality of the noticing itself. The quality of the awareness. [pause] A world of experience always available. A world full of secret homes. All we have to do is be open, and see them. AD ACT II GUNATILLAKE: Earlier, I mentioned how you can bring mindfulness to your connection with others. Our sponsor, Salesforce, practices mindfulness as an essential part of their culture. They’ve asked me to share one powerful microstep you can try — to foster that connection. It’s simple: Once a day, consider someone else’s perspective. Whether it’s someone you tend to pass by, or someone you struggle to feel connection with — thinking about their experiences can help you build a new relationship, let go of a grudge, or expand your own perspective. It can be as straightforward as asking yourself, “What might this person be feeling?” And with that simple action, our gratitude goes out to Salesforce for supporting storytellers who open up something within us, and spark the kind of positive change that cascades out into the world. Powerful perspectives — shared through a story — make change possible. THANK YOU AND CLOSING CREDITS Meditative Story is a WaitWhat original in partnership with Thrive Global. The show is produced at the studio inside SY Partners in New York. Our executive producers are Deron Triff, June Cohen and Arianna Huffington. Our producers are Sabrina Farhi, Dan Katz, Emily Johnson, Marina (KUH-DECK-ULL), and Juliana (JULI-AH-NA) Stone. Our supervising producers are Jai Punjabi and Peter Koechley (KECK-LY). Our curator is Cary Goldstein. Original music and sound design is by the Holladay Brothers. Mixing and mastering by Bryan Pyew. Special thanks to Alison Kreusch (KROOSH), Steven Sherill, Anne Sachs, Danny Shea and Sarah Sandman. And I’m Rohan Gunatillake, creator of the Buddhify meditation app and your host. Visit [slow down here] meditativestory - dot - com to find the transcript for this episode.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Travel to Southeast Asia with writer Pico Iyer as he reveals what happens when we allow ourselves to be pulled forward into the unknown, when we wander and let ourselves experience the magic of the scenes unfolding around us.
PICO'S MEDITATIVE STORY
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Episode Transcript
Arianna Huffington takes us on her journey from Athens to Cambridge, and shares a lesson she learned from her mother of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome.
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ARIANNA'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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Arianna Huffington
About Arianna Huffington
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
Arianna Huffington
Arianna Huffington is the founder and CEO of Thrive Global, the founder of The Huffington Post, and the author of 15 books. Her legendary career as an entrepreneur and author began with one big, fearless leap into the unknown: her decision to leave her childhood home in Greece and—without knowing a word of English—go to school at Cambridge. And that leap begins with this story, a testament to her mother's warmth, determination and love for her daughter. In telling this story, she says: "I want to honor not only the wisdom of my mother, but the wisdom of parents everywhere."
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Life and love and the moment
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy thefreedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern betweenwhat it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
ARianna'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Arianna Huffington is the founder of The Huffington Post, the founder and CEO of Thrive Global, and the author of 15 books, including the recent bestsellers "Thrive: The Third Metric to Redefining Success and Creating a Life of Well-Being, Wisdom and Wonder and The Sleep Revolution: Transforming Your Life, One Night at a Time." In May 2005, she launched The Huffington Post, a news and blog site that quickly became one of the most widely read, linked to and cited media brands on the web. In August 2016, she launched Thrive Global, a corporate and consumer well-being and productivity platform with the mission of changing the way we work and live by ending the collective delusion that burnout is the price we must pay for success.
Life and love and the moment
ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: That’s what kept me going – her conviction that failure doesn’t matter made it easier for me to succeed. There was no Plan B lurking on the edge of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me. Because life and love and the moment were Plan A and we’d always have those, and so why would you ever need anything else? STORY INTRODUCTION ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Arianna Huffington grew up in an unassuming one-bedroom apartment above the bustling streets of Athens, Greece. What she lacked in material things, she regained many times over in the rich home her mother created for her and her sister. There, at their kitchen table, Arianna’s spirit of adventure was born. And it was there that her mother taught her the universal wisdom of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Before I hand over to Arianna, let’s see if we can embody a sense of alertness. Soon you’re going to hear about a moment, a period of time which was to change the course of her life. So let’s get ready to meet that story with brightness, curiosity, and attention. For you that might mean straightening out your body a little. Or relaxing your face. Or taking a breath. Do what feels right for you. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. STORY ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: Every time I go back to Athens, I return to the tiny street where I grew up. It was just the three of us, my mother, my little sister Agapi, and me. My parents had separated, so we all shared this cramped one-bedroom apartment across the street from a fire station in the middle of the city. But my mother made it seem grand and full of life. And she’d do this through cooking -- constant, non-stop cooking. For my mother, food was life and life was food. If you were eating, it meant you were alive. Food was a kind of love offering, and she was a high priestess. Her ceremonial robes were a house dress and a food-smeared apron. Our lives in Athens revolved around the kitchen table. Agapi and I would hurry home from school, and even before we’d throw open the door, we’d be coaxed in down the hallway with the smells of dill, mint, sage, rosemary, thyme, basil, and fennel. These smells were her emissaries. She sent them to greet us even before she could emerge from the kitchen and give us a hug. With her cooking, she created a micro-climate of her own that paid no mind to the outside world. Then we’d throw down our school bags and descend on the kitchen table. We’d sit at that table for hours. Eating, talking, doing homework, talking over problems from school, problems from life, and eating some more. And then finally my mother would bring out the thing we loved the most: walnuts and honey. That’s how we’d end each meal, drunk on Greek honey. GUNATILLAKE: From your own childhood, is there a dish or type of food that particularly evokes good memories? Take a moment to bring it to mind. And feel free to smile. Can you picture the food and the people or the place you most associate with it? HUFFINGTON: I remember one particular day, I see a magazine on my way home from school. The cover is a photo of Cambridge University in England. Now, I’d never been to England. In fact, I’d never been anywhere outside of Greece. But that photo catches my eye. It stops me. I get home, fly through the doorway to be greeted by the aroma of my favorite dish, artichokes in a creamy dill sauce. There were other assorted dishes there, too -- spanakopita, hummus, eggplants — those were always around. They got changed regularly, but you never really saw it, they were just always there. So I run in, throw my bag down, open the magazine and spread it out on the table. “Mommy, look at this.” “What is it, honey?” she says. “It’s Cambridge,” I say. “it’s in England.” “I know that,” my mother replies. “But why are you showing it to me?” “Because I want to go there.” “You mean you want to visit there?” “No, I want to go to university there. I love it and that’s where I want to go to school.” I’m probably more surprised than my mother to hear this come out of my mouth. The photo had touched something deep inside me, something I hadn’t really articulated to myself at the time. It was the desire to open up new possibilities, and above all to learn, learn, learn. I loved school and I loved learning – about languages, about history, about other places. Learning, for me, was what food was for my mother. To learn is to be alive. And Cambridge seemed liked the center of the learning universe. By the time I make my proclamation, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Even if it means leaving this love-filled room, and the very table I’d put the magazine down on. So I look up at my mother, not knowing what she’s going to say. She’d never been anything but supportive, but what I’d just said was ridiculous. Teenagers want a lot of things they can’t have. But instead my mother says: “That’s amazing. It looks beautiful. Let’s see how we can get you there.” I’m stunned. Not because of her positive reaction – I should never have expected anything else --but because her taking the idea seriously stopped my giddy reverie and brought me back down to earth. Back to our tiny apartment in Athens. Now, there was one problem with my going to university in England – I didn’t speak English. “No problem,” my mother says. “I’m sure you can learn English quickly.” “Really?” I say. I’m amazed not by her confidence in my learning English, but to the whole thing, the whole crazy idea. “Sure. Maybe we can go visit, just to see what it's like. I’ll see if I can get us some cheap tickets." It’s probably a good thing that neither of us had any clue just how incredibly difficult it was going to be. That’s what her wall of unconditional love and support and optimism and artichokes and spanakopita did – it created an insulating barrier between me and the harsh outside world. A little hothouse where my naivete could slowly metamorphosize into something resembling confidence. Every day for the next several weeks, my mother did research. She never went to college, but she had street smarts. She never doubted that she could figure something out and make it happen through sheer determination. At every meal, she would give us updates on what she’d found out. “So, in order for you to get into Cambridge, you first have to take something called the ‘general certificates of education.’ Then you have to take a special entrance exam, and then a verbal exam.” “Wow,” I remember saying. “That seems like a lot. How are we ever going to do all that?” “Well, I also found out you can take your general certificates of education through the British Council.” “But I still don't speak English,” I say. “I also found this intensive class where you can start learning English,” she says. There was really nothing I could say. She’d figured it all out. She even looked into how to apply for a scholarship. Sure it was all daunting, and there was a lot of red tape and forms to fill out. But my mother could turn anything into a big adventure. My first step into the world outside of Greece was no exception. But the most important thing my mother did for me wasn’t all the research and the planning. And it wasn’t even the confidence she had in me. It was the sense that even if I didn't get in, that that would be okay, too. She didn’t get wrapped up in any particular outcome. We’d just be on to the next adventure. That’s what kept me going – her conviction that failure doesn’t matter made it easier for me to succeed. There was no Plan B lurking on the edge of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me. Because life and love and the moment were Plan A and we’d always have those, and so why would you ever need anything else? So then it came time to visit Cambridge. My mother got us both tickets – of course she wheedled some cheap seats somehow. And I remember those seats because they didn’t recline... at all. I’d never flown before, but it was fine, because, who knows, maybe Cambridge required extra-rigid posture to keep my mind properly attuned. From the airport, we went straight to London. Of course, it was pouring rain. From there, we took the train to Cambridge. It continued to pour all the way. To the locals it was probably a gray, dreary day, but to me it seemed lush and sultry and green. GUNATILLAKE: Can you picture the scene? A young Arianna seeing through the greyness of the English weather, her mind full of wonder and delight as she explores this famous old university with its striking architecture and inviting lawns. HUFFINGTON: And then finally we were there. It was hard to believe. In most cases, as I’ve learned, a place rarely lives up to what it looks like in a travel brochure. So even on this wet, gray day, it was so much more vivid than I’d imagined. Building after building. There were students all over the place. Cambridge students. Who spoke perfect English. It was thrilling, but also intimidating. Which my mother sensed. “Well, here we are,” she says, as if we’d just arrived at our local grocery store. “Let’s go.” The day itself was a bit of a blur. Even though I wanted to major in economics, we didn’t go visit the economics department. Nor did we go to the admissions office, which might have been the obvious thing to do. We didn’t even talk to anybody. We just walked around Cambridge. All day. Two Greek women who barely spoke English. Like spies doing reconnaissance. But I think what we were really doing was just walking around the place until it felt natural for me to be there. It was a kind of in-person visualization. I’m walking around just like the real students are. In the same buildings. Nothing bad is happening. Nobody is reacting. If I got in, this is what I’d be doing. Maybe it really is possible. GUNATILLAKE: How does the idea of an in-person visualisation sound to you? Arianna explored what it would be like to be her future self by walking around Cambridge as if she were a student there, not a visitor. Are there any experiences for you that you would want to become real? What would your in-person visualisation look like? And the more we walked, the more I loved it. I thought it was gorgeous, the colleges, the libraries, the river. By the end of the day it felt oddly familiar and at the same time ancient. It all reeked of history. A history I ached to be a part of. It was overwhelming, the sort of place that could take over your life. Then we took the train right back to London, went straight to the airport, and took the flight back to Athens. Our seats reclined this time. Did they know I’d been to Cambridge? Reclining seats seemed like something that would be normal for Cambridge students. Maybe it was a cosmic message of some kind. On the way back, we hatched the final part of our plan. Or at least my mother did. The plan was that I would come back to London after taking my General Certificate of Education to prepare for my entrance exam and continue to study English. Around people who actually spoke English. And after all that was done and the entrance exams were taken, there wasn’t much left to do but wait. But I wasn’t riddled with anxiety. And that was because of my mother. Life was still going on, and would go on, one way or another. We weren’t waiting for life to begin, this was life. And then the day came. A telegram arrived. It’s waiting for me when I get home from school. My mother had put it on the table and motioned to it nonchalantly. I tear it open. “Accepted” and granted an exhibition - which is a form of scholarship. I got in. I can’t believe it. It’s just a piece of paper, but it seems more unreal than our actual visit had been. My mother smiles and then hugs me. But she isn’t jumping up and down, as I am inside. Just as she wouldn’t love me any less if I’d gotten rejected, she also couldn’t love me more just because I’d gotten accepted. That’s what allowed me to reach what really should have been an unattainable goal. It wasn’t a journey filled with anxiety and fear. It was an adventure. One always served, like your favorite dish, with unconditional love. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Arianna’s story. In just a moment, I’ll guide you through a closing meditation. After that, I’ll share a micro-step that you can take into your day, inspired by the mindfulness practices of our sponsor, Salesforce. CLOSING MEDITATION GUNATILLAKE: Of all the themes in Arianna’s story, the one that stands out the most - for me - is that of adventure. With her sudden calling to study at Cambridge, she embarks on a series of challenges, all of which she overcomes to finally win her prize. And by loving the adventure, and being loved through the adventure, she’s able to complete her journey without anxiety or fear. I often think about my own meditation practice, and meditation in general as an adventure or a journey. However long you’ve been practising, there are always ups and downs - times of clarity and even exhilaration, often shortly followed by times of wondering why you’re even bothering to do it in the first place. And back again. But what keeps me going is the process itself, for whatever results come about in the long-term, there’s an intrinsic delight and no small amount of wisdom that comes from just doing the practice and sticking with it. And the same applies for a single meditation session as it does for a whole lifetime of practice. Just being on an adventure can be reward enough. So let’s go on one. However your body is right now, this is the vessel we’re going in. So whether you’re sitting down, or walking, standing or lying, do what you need to to embody the qualities you want to express - openness, steadiness, courage. With your mind relaxed, ask yourself the question ‘what’s my next thought going to be?’ and then just wait for it. And when the thought appears, catch it with your awareness. And when you’ve done that just reset, relax and start watching again, watching for the next thought to arise. Alert and ready. What the content of the thought is, isn’t that important. What matters is your ability to catch it. That’s what we’re most interested in. While doing this technique, as with all adventures you’ll likely meet some challenges. Distraction as you get caught into a train of thought or a daydream. Doubt as to whether you’re doing it right. Aversion to the idea of doing it at all. These are all welcome, just characters in your adventure, here to help you come back to your intention and to try again. So let’s try again. Watching your mind for the next thought to appear. And catching it when it does. Doing this just for a minute or so, you’ll have failures and successes. Sometimes you’ll have a nice bright awareness, illuminating what’s happening in your mind in real time. And sometimes doing this technique, it might be a bit foggy and you’ll feel like you’ve not discovered a single thing about the habits and patterns of your inner life. But just like Arianna’s mother, part of you knows that the thing that matters most isn’t the results - they’ll come in time - what matters most is the adventure itself.
“Of all the themes in Arianna’s story, the one that stands out the most - for me - is that of adventure. With her sudden calling to study at Cambridge, she embarks on a series of challenges, all of which she overcomes to finally win her prize. And by loving the adventure, and being loved through the adventure, she’s able to complete her journey without anxiety or fear.”
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Arianna Huffington
ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: That’s what kept me going – her conviction that failure doesn’t matter made it easier for me to succeed. There was no Plan B lurking on the edge of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me. Because life and love and the moment were Plan A and we’d always have those, and so why would you ever need anything else? STORY INTRODUCTION ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Arianna Huffington grew up in an unassuming one-bedroom apartment above the bustling streets of Athens, Greece. What she lacked in material things, she regained many times over in the rich home her mother created for her and her sister. There, at their kitchen table, Arianna’s spirit of adventure was born. And it was there that her mother taught her the universal wisdom of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Before I hand over to Arianna, let’s see if we can embody a sense of alertness. Soon you’re going to hear about a moment, a period of time which was to change the course of her life. So let’s get ready to meet that story with brightness, curiosity, and attention. For you that might mean straightening out your body a little. Or relaxing your face. Or taking a breath. Do what feels right for you. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. STORY ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: Every time I go back to Athens, I return to the tiny street where I grew up. It was just the three of us, my mother, my little sister Agapi, and me. My parents had separated, so we all shared this cramped one-bedroom apartment across the street from a fire station in the middle of the city. But my mother made it seem grand and full of life. And she’d do this through cooking -- constant, non-stop cooking. For my mother, food was life and life was food. If you were eating, it meant you were alive. Food was a kind of love offering, and she was a high priestess. Her ceremonial robes were a house dress and a food-smeared apron. Our lives in Athens revolved around the kitchen table. Agapi and I would hurry home from school, and even before we’d throw open the door, we’d be coaxed in down the hallway with the smells of dill, mint, sage, rosemary, thyme, basil, and fennel. These smells were her emissaries. She sent them to greet us even before she could emerge from the kitchen and give us a hug. With her cooking, she created a micro-climate of her own that paid no mind to the outside world. Then we’d throw down our school bags and descend on the kitchen table. We’d sit at that table for hours. Eating, talking, doing homework, talking over problems from school, problems from life, and eating some more. And then finally my mother would bring out the thing we loved the most: walnuts and honey. That’s how we’d end each meal, drunk on Greek honey. GUNATILLAKE: From your own childhood, is there a dish or type of food that particularly evokes good memories? Take a moment to bring it to mind. And feel free to smile. Can you picture the food and the people or the place you most associate with it? HUFFINGTON: I remember one particular day, I see a magazine on my way home from school. The cover is a photo of Cambridge University in England. Now, I’d never been to England. In fact, I’d never been anywhere outside of Greece. But that photo catches my eye. It stops me. I get home, fly through the doorway to be greeted by the aroma of my favorite dish, artichokes in a creamy dill sauce. There were other assorted dishes there, too -- spanakopita, hummus, eggplants — those were always around. They got changed regularly, but you never really saw it, they were just always there. So I run in, throw my bag down, open the magazine and spread it out on the table. “Mommy, look at this.” “What is it, honey?” she says. “It’s Cambridge,” I say. “it’s in England.” “I know that,” my mother replies. “But why are you showing it to me?” “Because I want to go there.” “You mean you want to visit there?” “No, I want to go to university there. I love it and that’s where I want to go to school.” I’m probably more surprised than my mother to hear this come out of my mouth. The photo had touched something deep inside me, something I hadn’t really articulated to myself at the time. It was the desire to open up new possibilities, and above all to learn, learn, learn. I loved school and I loved learning – about languages, about history, about other places. Learning, for me, was what food was for my mother. To learn is to be alive. And Cambridge seemed liked the center of the learning universe. By the time I make my proclamation, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Even if it means leaving this love-filled room, and the very table I’d put the magazine down on. So I look up at my mother, not knowing what she’s going to say. She’d never been anything but supportive, but what I’d just said was ridiculous. Teenagers want a lot of things they can’t have. But instead my mother says: “That’s amazing. It looks beautiful. Let’s see how we can get you there.” I’m stunned. Not because of her positive reaction – I should never have expected anything else --but because her taking the idea seriously stopped my giddy reverie and brought me back down to earth. Back to our tiny apartment in Athens. Now, there was one problem with my going to university in England – I didn’t speak English. “No problem,” my mother says. “I’m sure you can learn English quickly.” “Really?” I say. I’m amazed not by her confidence in my learning English, but to the whole thing, the whole crazy idea. “Sure. Maybe we can go visit, just to see what it's like. I’ll see if I can get us some cheap tickets." It’s probably a good thing that neither of us had any clue just how incredibly difficult it was going to be. That’s what her wall of unconditional love and support and optimism and artichokes and spanakopita did – it created an insulating barrier between me and the harsh outside world. A little hothouse where my naivete could slowly metamorphosize into something resembling confidence. Every day for the next several weeks, my mother did research. She never went to college, but she had street smarts. She never doubted that she could figure something out and make it happen through sheer determination. At every meal, she would give us updates on what she’d found out. “So, in order for you to get into Cambridge, you first have to take something called the ‘general certificates of education.’ Then you have to take a special entrance exam, and then a verbal exam.” “Wow,” I remember saying. “That seems like a lot. How are we ever going to do all that?” “Well, I also found out you can take your general certificates of education through the British Council.” “But I still don't speak English,” I say. “I also found this intensive class where you can start learning English,” she says. There was really nothing I could say. She’d figured it all out. She even looked into how to apply for a scholarship. Sure it was all daunting, and there was a lot of red tape and forms to fill out. But my mother could turn anything into a big adventure. My first step into the world outside of Greece was no exception. But the most important thing my mother did for me wasn’t all the research and the planning. And it wasn’t even the confidence she had in me. It was the sense that even if I didn't get in, that that would be okay, too. She didn’t get wrapped up in any particular outcome. We’d just be on to the next adventure. That’s what kept me going – her conviction that failure doesn’t matter made it easier for me to succeed. There was no Plan B lurking on the edge of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me. Because life and love and the moment were Plan A and we’d always have those, and so why would you ever need anything else? So then it came time to visit Cambridge. My mother got us both tickets – of course she wheedled some cheap seats somehow. And I remember those seats because they didn’t recline... at all. I’d never flown before, but it was fine, because, who knows, maybe Cambridge required extra-rigid posture to keep my mind properly attuned. From the airport, we went straight to London. Of course, it was pouring rain. From there, we took the train to Cambridge. It continued to pour all the way. To the locals it was probably a gray, dreary day, but to me it seemed lush and sultry and green. GUNATILLAKE: Can you picture the scene? A young Arianna seeing through the greyness of the English weather, her mind full of wonder and delight as she explores this famous old university with its striking architecture and inviting lawns. HUFFINGTON: And then finally we were there. It was hard to believe. In most cases, as I’ve learned, a place rarely lives up to what it looks like in a travel brochure. So even on this wet, gray day, it was so much more vivid than I’d imagined. Building after building. There were students all over the place. Cambridge students. Who spoke perfect English. It was thrilling, but also intimidating. Which my mother sensed. “Well, here we are,” she says, as if we’d just arrived at our local grocery store. “Let’s go.” The day itself was a bit of a blur. Even though I wanted to major in economics, we didn’t go visit the economics department. Nor did we go to the admissions office, which might have been the obvious thing to do. We didn’t even talk to anybody. We just walked around Cambridge. All day. Two Greek women who barely spoke English. Like spies doing reconnaissance. But I think what we were really doing was just walking around the place until it felt natural for me to be there. It was a kind of in-person visualization. I’m walking around just like the real students are. In the same buildings. Nothing bad is happening. Nobody is reacting. If I got in, this is what I’d be doing. Maybe it really is possible. GUNATILLAKE: How does the idea of an in-person visualisation sound to you? Arianna explored what it would be like to be her future self by walking around Cambridge as if she were a student there, not a visitor. Are there any experiences for you that you would want to become real? What would your in-person visualisation look like? And the more we walked, the more I loved it. I thought it was gorgeous, the colleges, the libraries, the river. By the end of the day it felt oddly familiar and at the same time ancient. It all reeked of history. A history I ached to be a part of. It was overwhelming, the sort of place that could take over your life. Then we took the train right back to London, went straight to the airport, and took the flight back to Athens. Our seats reclined this time. Did they know I’d been to Cambridge? Reclining seats seemed like something that would be normal for Cambridge students. Maybe it was a cosmic message of some kind. On the way back, we hatched the final part of our plan. Or at least my mother did. The plan was that I would come back to London after taking my General Certificate of Education to prepare for my entrance exam and continue to study English. Around people who actually spoke English. And after all that was done and the entrance exams were taken, there wasn’t much left to do but wait. But I wasn’t riddled with anxiety. And that was because of my mother. Life was still going on, and would go on, one way or another. We weren’t waiting for life to begin, this was life. And then the day came. A telegram arrived. It’s waiting for me when I get home from school. My mother had put it on the table and motioned to it nonchalantly. I tear it open. “Accepted” and granted an exhibition - which is a form of scholarship. I got in. I can’t believe it. It’s just a piece of paper, but it seems more unreal than our actual visit had been. My mother smiles and then hugs me. But she isn’t jumping up and down, as I am inside. Just as she wouldn’t love me any less if I’d gotten rejected, she also couldn’t love me more just because I’d gotten accepted. That’s what allowed me to reach what really should have been an unattainable goal. It wasn’t a journey filled with anxiety and fear. It was an adventure. One always served, like your favorite dish, with unconditional love. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Arianna’s story. In just a moment, I’ll guide you through a closing meditation. After that, I’ll share a micro-step that you can take into your day, inspired by the mindfulness practices of our sponsor, Salesforce. CLOSING MEDITATION GUNATILLAKE: Of all the themes in Arianna’s story, the one that stands out the most - for me - is that of adventure. With her sudden calling to study at Cambridge, she embarks on a series of challenges, all of which she overcomes to finally win her prize. And by loving the adventure, and being loved through the adventure, she’s able to complete her journey without anxiety or fear. I often think about my own meditation practice, and meditation in general as an adventure or a journey. However long you’ve been practising, there are always ups and downs - times of clarity and even exhilaration, often shortly followed by times of wondering why you’re even bothering to do it in the first place. And back again. But what keeps me going is the process itself, for whatever results come about in the long-term, there’s an intrinsic delight and no small amount of wisdom that comes from just doing the practice and sticking with it. And the same applies for a single meditation session as it does for a whole lifetime of practice. Just being on an adventure can be reward enough. So let’s go on one. However your body is right now, this is the vessel we’re going in. So whether you’re sitting down, or walking, standing or lying, do what you need to to embody the qualities you want to express - openness, steadiness, courage. With your mind relaxed, ask yourself the question ‘what’s my next thought going to be?’ and then just wait for it. And when the thought appears, catch it with your awareness. And when you’ve done that just reset, relax and start watching again, watching for the next thought to arise. Alert and ready. What the content of the thought is, isn’t that important. What matters is your ability to catch it. That’s what we’re most interested in. While doing this technique, as with all adventures you’ll likely meet some challenges. Distraction as you get caught into a train of thought or a daydream. Doubt as to whether you’re doing it right. Aversion to the idea of doing it at all. These are all welcome, just characters in your adventure, here to help you come back to your intention and to try again. So let’s try again. Watching your mind for the next thought to appear. And catching it when it does. Doing this just for a minute or so, you’ll have failures and successes. Sometimes you’ll have a nice bright awareness, illuminating what’s happening in your mind in real time. And sometimes doing this technique, it might be a bit foggy and you’ll feel like you’ve not discovered a single thing about the habits and patterns of your inner life. But just like Arianna’s mother, part of you knows that the thing that matters most isn’t the results - they’ll come in time - what matters most is the adventure itself.
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Arianna Huffington is the founder of The Huffington Post, the founder and CEO of Thrive Global, and the author of 15 books, including the recent bestsellers "Thrive: The Third Metric to Redefining Success and Creating a Life of Well-Being, Wisdom and Wonder and The Sleep Revolution: Transforming Your Life, One Night at a Time." In May 2005, she launched The Huffington Post, a news and blog site that quickly became one of the most widely read, linked to and cited media brands on the web. In August 2016, she launched Thrive Global, a corporate and consumer well-being and productivity platform with the mission of changing the way we work and live by ending the collective delusion that burnout is the price we must pay for success.
From the closing meditation
Arianna Huffington
About Arianna Huffington
Life and love and the moment
Clarity
change
Openness
change
ARianna'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Arianna Huffington
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ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: That’s what kept me going – her conviction that failure doesn’t matter made it easier for me to succeed. There was no Plan B lurking on the edge of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me. Because life and love and the moment were Plan A and we’d always have those, and so why would you ever need anything else? STORY INTRODUCTION ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Arianna Huffington grew up in an unassuming one-bedroom apartment above the bustling streets of Athens, Greece. What she lacked in material things, she regained many times over in the rich home her mother created for her and her sister. There, at their kitchen table, Arianna’s spirit of adventure was born. And it was there that her mother taught her the universal wisdom of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Before I hand over to Arianna, let’s see if we can embody a sense of alertness. Soon you’re going to hear about a moment, a period of time which was to change the course of her life. So let’s get ready to meet that story with brightness, curiosity, and attention. For you that might mean straightening out your body a little. Or relaxing your face. Or taking a breath. Do what feels right for you. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. STORY ARIANNA HUFFINGTON: Every time I go back to Athens, I return to the tiny street where I grew up. It was just the three of us, my mother, my little sister Agapi, and me. My parents had separated, so we all shared this cramped one-bedroom apartment across the street from a fire station in the middle of the city. But my mother made it seem grand and full of life. And she’d do this through cooking -- constant, non-stop cooking. For my mother, food was life and life was food. If you were eating, it meant you were alive. Food was a kind of love offering, and she was a high priestess. Her ceremonial robes were a house dress and a food-smeared apron. Our lives in Athens revolved around the kitchen table. Agapi and I would hurry home from school, and even before we’d throw open the door, we’d be coaxed in down the hallway with the smells of dill, mint, sage, rosemary, thyme, basil, and fennel. These smells were her emissaries. She sent them to greet us even before she could emerge from the kitchen and give us a hug. With her cooking, she created a micro-climate of her own that paid no mind to the outside world. Then we’d throw down our school bags and descend on the kitchen table. We’d sit at that table for hours. Eating, talking, doing homework, talking over problems from school, problems from life, and eating some more. And then finally my mother would bring out the thing we loved the most: walnuts and honey. That’s how we’d end each meal, drunk on Greek honey. GUNATILLAKE: From your own childhood, is there a dish or type of food that particularly evokes good memories? Take a moment to bring it to mind. And feel free to smile. Can you picture the food and the people or the place you most associate with it? HUFFINGTON: I remember one particular day, I see a magazine on my way home from school. The cover is a photo of Cambridge University in England. Now, I’d never been to England. In fact, I’d never been anywhere outside of Greece. But that photo catches my eye. It stops me. I get home, fly through the doorway to be greeted by the aroma of my favorite dish, artichokes in a creamy dill sauce. There were other assorted dishes there, too -- spanakopita, hummus, eggplants — those were always around. They got changed regularly, but you never really saw it, they were just always there. So I run in, throw my bag down, open the magazine and spread it out on the table. “Mommy, look at this.” “What is it, honey?” she says. “It’s Cambridge,” I say. “it’s in England.” “I know that,” my mother replies. “But why are you showing it to me?” “Because I want to go there.” “You mean you want to visit there?” “No, I want to go to university there. I love it and that’s where I want to go to school.” I’m probably more surprised than my mother to hear this come out of my mouth. The photo had touched something deep inside me, something I hadn’t really articulated to myself at the time. It was the desire to open up new possibilities, and above all to learn, learn, learn. I loved school and I loved learning – about languages, about history, about other places. Learning, for me, was what food was for my mother. To learn is to be alive. And Cambridge seemed liked the center of the learning universe. By the time I make my proclamation, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Even if it means leaving this love-filled room, and the very table I’d put the magazine down on. So I look up at my mother, not knowing what she’s going to say. She’d never been anything but supportive, but what I’d just said was ridiculous. Teenagers want a lot of things they can’t have. But instead my mother says: “That’s amazing. It looks beautiful. Let’s see how we can get you there.” I’m stunned. Not because of her positive reaction – I should never have expected anything else --but because her taking the idea seriously stopped my giddy reverie and brought me back down to earth. Back to our tiny apartment in Athens. Now, there was one problem with my going to university in England – I didn’t speak English. “No problem,” my mother says. “I’m sure you can learn English quickly.” “Really?” I say. I’m amazed not by her confidence in my learning English, but to the whole thing, the whole crazy idea. “Sure. Maybe we can go visit, just to see what it's like. I’ll see if I can get us some cheap tickets." It’s probably a good thing that neither of us had any clue just how incredibly difficult it was going to be. That’s what her wall of unconditional love and support and optimism and artichokes and spanakopita did – it created an insulating barrier between me and the harsh outside world. A little hothouse where my naivete could slowly metamorphosize into something resembling confidence. Every day for the next several weeks, my mother did research. She never went to college, but she had street smarts. She never doubted that she could figure something out and make it happen through sheer determination. At every meal, she would give us updates on what she’d found out. “So, in order for you to get into Cambridge, you first have to take something called the ‘general certificates of education.’ Then you have to take a special entrance exam, and then a verbal exam.” “Wow,” I remember saying. “That seems like a lot. How are we ever going to do all that?” “Well, I also found out you can take your general certificates of education through the British Council.” “But I still don't speak English,” I say. “I also found this intensive class where you can start learning English,” she says. There was really nothing I could say. She’d figured it all out. She even looked into how to apply for a scholarship. Sure it was all daunting, and there was a lot of red tape and forms to fill out. But my mother could turn anything into a big adventure. My first step into the world outside of Greece was no exception. But the most important thing my mother did for me wasn’t all the research and the planning. And it wasn’t even the confidence she had in me. It was the sense that even if I didn't get in, that that would be okay, too. She didn’t get wrapped up in any particular outcome. We’d just be on to the next adventure. That’s what kept me going – her conviction that failure doesn’t matter made it easier for me to succeed. There was no Plan B lurking on the edge of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me. Because life and love and the moment were Plan A and we’d always have those, and so why would you ever need anything else? So then it came time to visit Cambridge. My mother got us both tickets – of course she wheedled some cheap seats somehow. And I remember those seats because they didn’t recline... at all. I’d never flown before, but it was fine, because, who knows, maybe Cambridge required extra-rigid posture to keep my mind properly attuned. From the airport, we went straight to London. Of course, it was pouring rain. From there, we took the train to Cambridge. It continued to pour all the way. To the locals it was probably a gray, dreary day, but to me it seemed lush and sultry and green. GUNATILLAKE: Can you picture the scene? A young Arianna seeing through the greyness of the English weather, her mind full of wonder and delight as she explores this famous old university with its striking architecture and inviting lawns. HUFFINGTON: And then finally we were there. It was hard to believe. In most cases, as I’ve learned, a place rarely lives up to what it looks like in a travel brochure. So even on this wet, gray day, it was so much more vivid than I’d imagined. Building after building. There were students all over the place. Cambridge students. Who spoke perfect English. It was thrilling, but also intimidating. Which my mother sensed. “Well, here we are,” she says, as if we’d just arrived at our local grocery store. “Let’s go.” The day itself was a bit of a blur. Even though I wanted to major in economics, we didn’t go visit the economics department. Nor did we go to the admissions office, which might have been the obvious thing to do. We didn’t even talk to anybody. We just walked around Cambridge. All day. Two Greek women who barely spoke English. Like spies doing reconnaissance. But I think what we were really doing was just walking around the place until it felt natural for me to be there. It was a kind of in-person visualization. I’m walking around just like the real students are. In the same buildings. Nothing bad is happening. Nobody is reacting. If I got in, this is what I’d be doing. Maybe it really is possible. GUNATILLAKE: How does the idea of an in-person visualisation sound to you? Arianna explored what it would be like to be her future self by walking around Cambridge as if she were a student there, not a visitor. Are there any experiences for you that you would want to become real? What would your in-person visualisation look like? And the more we walked, the more I loved it. I thought it was gorgeous, the colleges, the libraries, the river. By the end of the day it felt oddly familiar and at the same time ancient. It all reeked of history. A history I ached to be a part of. It was overwhelming, the sort of place that could take over your life. Then we took the train right back to London, went straight to the airport, and took the flight back to Athens. Our seats reclined this time. Did they know I’d been to Cambridge? Reclining seats seemed like something that would be normal for Cambridge students. Maybe it was a cosmic message of some kind. On the way back, we hatched the final part of our plan. Or at least my mother did. The plan was that I would come back to London after taking my General Certificate of Education to prepare for my entrance exam and continue to study English. Around people who actually spoke English. And after all that was done and the entrance exams were taken, there wasn’t much left to do but wait. But I wasn’t riddled with anxiety. And that was because of my mother. Life was still going on, and would go on, one way or another. We weren’t waiting for life to begin, this was life. And then the day came. A telegram arrived. It’s waiting for me when I get home from school. My mother had put it on the table and motioned to it nonchalantly. I tear it open. “Accepted” and granted an exhibition - which is a form of scholarship. I got in. I can’t believe it. It’s just a piece of paper, but it seems more unreal than our actual visit had been. My mother smiles and then hugs me. But she isn’t jumping up and down, as I am inside. Just as she wouldn’t love me any less if I’d gotten rejected, she also couldn’t love me more just because I’d gotten accepted. That’s what allowed me to reach what really should have been an unattainable goal. It wasn’t a journey filled with anxiety and fear. It was an adventure. One always served, like your favorite dish, with unconditional love. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Arianna’s story. In just a moment, I’ll guide you through a closing meditation. After that, I’ll share a micro-step that you can take into your day, inspired by the mindfulness practices of our sponsor, Salesforce. CLOSING MEDITATION GUNATILLAKE: Of all the themes in Arianna’s story, the one that stands out the most - for me - is that of adventure. With her sudden calling to study at Cambridge, she embarks on a series of challenges, all of which she overcomes to finally win her prize. And by loving the adventure, and being loved through the adventure, she’s able to complete her journey without anxiety or fear. I often think about my own meditation practice, and meditation in general as an adventure or a journey. However long you’ve been practising, there are always ups and downs - times of clarity and even exhilaration, often shortly followed by times of wondering why you’re even bothering to do it in the first place. And back again. But what keeps me going is the process itself, for whatever results come about in the long-term, there’s an intrinsic delight and no small amount of wisdom that comes from just doing the practice and sticking with it. And the same applies for a single meditation session as it does for a whole lifetime of practice. Just being on an adventure can be reward enough. So let’s go on one. However your body is right now, this is the vessel we’re going in. So whether you’re sitting down, or walking, standing or lying, do what you need to to embody the qualities you want to express - openness, steadiness, courage. With your mind relaxed, ask yourself the question ‘what’s my next thought going to be?’ and then just wait for it. And when the thought appears, catch it with your awareness. And when you’ve done that just reset, relax and start watching again, watching for the next thought to arise. Alert and ready. What the content of the thought is, isn’t that important. What matters is your ability to catch it. That’s what we’re most interested in. While doing this technique, as with all adventures you’ll likely meet some challenges. Distraction as you get caught into a train of thought or a daydream. Doubt as to whether you’re doing it right. Aversion to the idea of doing it at all. These are all welcome, just characters in your adventure, here to help you come back to your intention and to try again. So let’s try again. Watching your mind for the next thought to appear. And catching it when it does. Doing this just for a minute or so, you’ll have failures and successes. Sometimes you’ll have a nice bright awareness, illuminating what’s happening in your mind in real time. And sometimes doing this technique, it might be a bit foggy and you’ll feel like you’ve not discovered a single thing about the habits and patterns of your inner life. But just like Arianna’s mother, part of you knows that the thing that matters most isn’t the results - they’ll come in time - what matters most is the adventure itself.
“Of all the themes in Arianna’s story, the one that stands out the most - for me - is that of adventure. With her sudden calling to study at Cambridge, she embarks on a series of challenges, all of which she overcomes to finally win her prize. And by loving the adventure, and being loved through the adventure, she’s able to complete her journey without anxiety or fear.”
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Arianna Huffington is the founder of The Huffington Post, the founder and CEO of Thrive Global, and the author of 15 books, including the recent bestsellers "Thrive: The Third Metric to Redefining Success and Creating a Life of Well-Being, Wisdom and Wonder and The Sleep Revolution: Transforming Your Life, One Night at a Time." In May 2005, she launched The Huffington Post, a news and blog site that quickly became one of the most widely read, linked to and cited media brands on the web. In August 2016, she launched Thrive Global, a corporate and consumer well-being and productivity platform with the mission of changing the way we work and live by ending the collective delusion that burnout is the price we must pay for success.
Episode Transcript
Arianna Huffington is the founder and CEO of Thrive Global, the founder of The Huffington Post, and the author of 15 books. Her legendary career as an entrepreneur and author began with one big, fearless leap into the unknown: her decision to leave her childhood home in Greece and—without knowing a word of English—go to school at Cambridge. And that leap begins with this story, a testament to her mother's warmth, determination and love for her daughter. In telling this story, she says: "I want to honor not only the wisdom of my mother, but the wisdom of parents everywhere."
Arianna Huffington
Arianna Huffington is the founder and CEO of Thrive Global, the founder of The Huffington Post, and the author of 15 books. Her legendary career as an entrepreneur and author began with one big, fearless leap into the unknown: her decision to leave her childhood home in Greece and—without knowing a word of English—go to school at Cambridge. And that leap begins with this story, a testament to her mother's warmth, determination and love for her daughter. In telling this story, she says: "I want to honor not only the wisdom of my mother, but the wisdom of parents everywhere."
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
From the closing meditation
Arianna Huffington takes us on her journey from Athens to Cambridge, and shares a lesson she learned from her mother of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Arianna Huffington takes us on her journey from Athens to Cambridge, and shares a lesson she learned from her mother of embracing life’s journey without being attached to the outcome.
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
As the Global Creative Director at Apple Music, Larry Jackson has signed deals with Drake, Frank Ocean, Nicki Minaj, The Weeknd and many others. He helped launch Apple Music, the fastest-growing entertainment subscription service to date; for the past three years, Billboard has ranked him on its Power 100. Previously, working with Clive Davis at RCA (where he was head of A&R and president of Arista Records), he produced albums for Whitney Houston and won a Grammy for Jennifer Hudson's debut album. Joining Jimmy Iovine at Interscope, he signed Lana Del Rey and became the Head of Content for Beats Music — all while managing Kanye West.
Larry Jackson
LARRY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
LARRY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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DISCOVERY
DISCOVERY
Larry Jackson
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Larry jackson
To visualize... and then make it so
As the Global Creative Director at Apple Music, Larry Jackson has signed deals with Drake, Frank Ocean, Nicki Minaj, The Weeknd and many others. He helped launch Apple Music, the fastest-growing entertainment subscription service to date; for the past three years, Billboard has ranked him on its Power 100. Previously, working with Clive Davis at RCA (where he was head of A&R and president of Arista Records), he produced albums for Whitney Houston and won a Grammy for Jennifer Hudson's debut album. Joining Jimmy Iovine at Interscope, he signed Lana Del Rey and became the Head of Content for Beats Music — all while managing Kanye West.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Larry Jackson
Arianna Huffington
"No matter how you approach meditation, a good way of understanding what it's all about is that it's about growing qualities. Qualities of mind and qualities of heart. Concentration, kindness, self-awareness, balance in times of difficult and challenge — they're all qualities that we can manifest in ourselves. And the best way to do that is not to imagine them in our future but to actually realise them in our present. So if you dream of being an amazing kind, compassionate person, but that feels far away, the way to get there is by being kind now, in whatever way you can."
LARRY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
LARRY JACKSON: It’s funny, because my job as a music producer, an A&R executive, is to go out and find the best material – songs, songwriters, producers – and the best up-and-coming artists, and bring them together, and then will them into success. The job is entirely predicated upon finding things that aren’t yet in their fully realized form and bringing them into existence. I’m literally in the business of manifesting, I suppose. Discovering and unearthing – and again, manifesting. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Behind every great artist there are all sorts of people whose own dedication and creativity enable the stars to be the stars. Larry Jackson is one of those people. From his start in the music industry at the age of 11 to his current role as Global Creative Director at Apple Music, there aren’t many people who know more about how great music is made than Larry. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you restore yourself at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide on this episode of Meditative Story. From time to time, we’ll pause the story ever so briefly for me to come in with guidance to enhance your experience as you listen. I hope these prompts will be helpful to you. And let’s take a moment now to settle in before we hear from Larry. Letting whatever thoughts and feelings are around be around, letting them be here. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. JACKSON: I’m sitting in a cramped, hole-in-the-wall recording studio in Tampa. I await the arrival of a vocal powerhouse. She’s coming in to record a new song for her upcoming album. I’ve spent a large part of my professional life in state-of-the-art recording studios in Los Angeles, New York, London, Johannesburg, Paris. But our location today is pretty nondescript from the outside – and frankly isn’t much better when you get inside its control room. I’ve arrived early. An hour and a half later, in walks Jennifer Hudson – and she’s not alone. Two young Pomeranians are with her. I’d met one of them before. Its name is Oscar. But the other one, who I don’t recognize at all, is new. Jennifer introduces me to her second dog, which she’s named... Grammy. The pun and deliberacy have gone completely over my head. I ask her with a clueless naiveté why she’s chosen those two particular names, Oscar and Grammy. Very matter of factly, she says: “Well, I won an Oscar already, and now we about to win a Grammy, ain’t we?!” I feel my brow begin to sweat. My body stiffens. And I laugh uncontrollably at what’s being implied. The studio starts to feel even smaller and shabbier than it is. You see, I’m her producer. I signed Jennifer Hudson earlier that year. I’m 27. The stakes are high; and the pressure is palpable. Jennifer’s recording contract had been signed not long after she had captured the country’s heart as a standout contestant on “American Idol”, and right before she won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in the blockbuster movie, “Dreamgirls”. In my career, I’ve had the great fortune to work with so many incredible artists, ranging from Whitney Houston to Chicago rapper Chief Keef to the national treasure Aretha Franklin, and many more. I’ve forged trusting relationships with the best songwriters in the business as well. So when I started working with Jennifer, I think, okay, no problem. She’s got a remarkably unique vocal prowess and power, so the potential for a hit album is easy to visualize for me. Between her insane talent, the momentum around “Dreamgirls”, and my relationships with the creative community, it feels like this should crystallize quickly. But between that initial optimism and this moment in Tampa, it’s almost been a year and a half of toil and sporadic fruitfulness. Jennifer and I have travelled to London to record with Timbaland. We’ve spent time in Los Angeles, Atlanta, and a few other cities trying to decode this creative Rubik’s cube. Yet we still don’t have a first single to unlock her debut album’s potential. Though I’ll never admit it, it feels like this is a languishing process with no foreseeable end in sight. It feels like we have decent stuff but in many ways we’re nowhere… well actually in this tiny studio, in Tampa, with me, Jennifer, and a yappy Pomeranian who she had the bold confidence to name Grammy. We don’t leave that Florida recording session with our first single. But instead, I have a feeling of a heightened sense of pressure to finish this album – and not leave Oscar as the only one of those dogs who’s lived up to its name. In the meantime, though, a story had just come out in the press that her debut album, which I’m executive producing, had been scrapped by Clive Davis over creative differences in terms of its direction. While the story was a bit of an exaggeration, the struggle that I was experiencing was a very real and arduous challenge. I was feeling the heat and feeling quite daunted. While in London two weeks later, I’m at The Dorchester Hotel struggling deeply with jet lag at 4 am and decide to catch up on some overdue demo listening. At the top of the stack is the proposed demo for Jennifer’s song, titled “Spotlight” written by Ne Yo. I generally pride myself on being a one-listen creative executive. I feel if a song has hit potential after hearing the first verse and the first chorus. After countless days and nights of endlessly listening for needles in haystacks, I’ve honed this intuitive skill to a soulful science. And immediately when I hear this one, I know we have it. The track has the same bark as Aretha’s classic “Respect” and the same bite as her anthemic “Think”. He nailed it. I listen to the demo non-stop until the sun comes up. I can’t believe it. This is finally our first single. GUNATILLAKE: Can you picture the scene? Can you feel the energy and excitement that Larry’s feeling in this moment? Feel the sensation of finally finding what you’ve been looking for. JACKSON: And just like that, I somehow got all the colors to line up on our creative Rubik’s cube. I see it clearly. It unlocks everything. It unlocks the power of that album. Unlocks my waning confidence. Unlocks the future path of the project. Fast forward to September of that year: The song becomes a number one R&B single in the U.S. February rolls around and it’s the 2009 Grammy Awards – no less than a year after my first amusing encounter with Grammy, the moody, mercurial Pomeranian. We arrive late but right on time. Within moments of our taking our seats, Whitney Houston comes out to present the Grammy award for the year’s Best R&B Album. It’s been a great year in this genre and the competition is stiff and tough, to say the least. I’m 28 years old. It’s the first time I’ve ever been on the floor at the Grammys, where all of the decorated nominees are also seated. As it relates to Best Album categories, if you serve as album producer for the project, you win an award alongside with the artist. So as co-album producers, Clive Davis and I stand to take one home respectively that night as well. I’m excited yet nervous. Whitney opens up the envelope and announces the winner, it’s JENNIFER! I can’t believe it. As I stand to applaud Jennifer as she takes the stage to accept the award, all I can think of at that moment is Grammy the Pomeranian. She was right! It’s a celebratory night. The next morning it all hits me what an important moment it is for me personally. GUNATILLAKE: Can you recall an event in your life where you received some good news about a hard-won accomplishment? Can you remember what the space you were in at that time was like? Go there. JACKSON: My childhood helps me understand why the creative journey with Jennifer is one of my life’s turning points. At 10 years old, I was really obsessed with pop culture and our local radio station in San Francisco, 106 KMEL. I used my family’s black touch-tone phone in the kitchen to call radio contests all the time. It didn’t have any fancy features – no redial, no frills, nothing like that. And I was always punching in the numbers as fast as I could with my nimble little fingers as I attempted to be caller 10, caller 106, or whatever number was required to win. I’d push the buttons as fast as I could, and if I heard a busy signal, I’d hang up and start punching those numbers over and over again. I became so fast though and so proficient, so good at winning these contests that they finally said, “Kid, you can’t win anymore but we’d love to have you down to the station sometime soon for a tour and a hang.” That moment afforded me a unique opportunity to put my foot in the door. And slowly but surely I became a fixture there. At 11, my dad buys me my first two turntables and a microphone from Radio Shack. I amusingly created my first DJ booth in my bedroom. Practice, practice, practice. The next two years I was an apprentice at the radio station and practicing in my off-time at home. At 14, I’m a full-time intern now and a board op at KMEL, which by the way, is market number four in the entire country. By 16, I’m hired as the music director of the station, which has fallen to eighth place in the market. By age 17, I’m expelled from high school because I’m spread too thin across academics and work. At age 19, we triumphantly take the station back to its number one ratings position in the market – and then I get a call. The call is from legendary music impresario Clive Davis. If I had to explain it, on the Mount Rushmore of the music business, Clive Davis has got to be someone like George Washington. A legendary New York-based record producer who worked with countless artists ranging from Whitney Houston to Aerosmith to Alicia Keys to Bruce Springsteen and Notorious B.I.G. Clive says, “I hear you’ve got some of the best ears in radio! How about coming to New York for an interview. I’m starting a new record label. I think you’d be a great fit.” That phone call single handedly changes my life. From an early age, I’ve always made a lot of things happen for myself. But before I met Jennifer Hudson and, of course, Grammy the Pomeranian, I’d always been overly superstitious. I often thought that if I didn’t think something would happen, that it probably would happen. But I had it dead wrong. Jennifer showed me that the best way to make big things happen is to believe that they will so much that you name your tiny little dog after them to see them through. It’s funny, because my job as a music producer, an A&R executive, is to go out and find the best material – songs, songwriters, producers – and the best up-and-coming artists, and bring them together, and then will them into success. The job is entirely predicated upon finding things that aren’t yet in their fully realized form and bringing them into existence. I’m literally in the business of manifesting, I suppose. Discovering and unearthing – and again, manifesting. The creative geniuses I work with show me the power of believing. They visualize and then they make it so. Even though I never went to college, I somehow beat the statistics for African-American men who don’t, and willed a life of pursuing my passion based on knowing that I’m supposed to be here. That I belong. All someone had to do was pass me the ball – or rather all I had to do was get on the court and fight tenaciously for it. Manifestation wasn’t how I would have described it in my teens, but it’s clearly what it is. Seeing it blossom powerfully through the lens of another helped me understand how to better harness that power. All my life, I had been trying to visualize the future with my eyes closed. I only used my ears. Speak what you seek until you see what you say. That’s the creed, that’s the mantra, that’s the belief. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Larry’s story. While the idea of visualising future events in order to support their coming about is not so much a part of the mindfulness tradition, there is a related idea: manifesting qualities. No matter how you approach meditation, a good way of understanding what it’s all about is that it’s about growing qualities: qualities of mind and qualities of heart. Concentration, kindness, self-awareness, balance in times of difficulty and challenge – they’re all qualities we can manifest in ourselves. And the best way to do that is not to imagine them in our future but to actually realize them in our present. So if you dream of being an amazing, kind, compassionate person but that feels far away, the way to get there is by being kind now, in whatever way you can. If being calm under pressure or not being pushed around by your own negative thinking is the future you want to manifest, then see what you can do to be like that now. Steadiness, joy, sensitivity, presence with others – these are natural qualities we all have. And if we want to build them up, all we need to do is practice them, to work on those muscles, to reinforce those neural pathways. It’s not magic. It’s training. And we can do some now if you like. Letting your body be however it is. Encouraging relaxation. Relaxing any tension in your face, your hands, your belly. Letting your mind be however it is. Encouraging letting go. Watching any thoughts and ideas come up and drift away. No real need to get tangled up in them or give them any solidity. Breathing. Breathing. And let’s start with calm. We may tell ourselves the story that we’re not calm at all, that our minds are all over the place, flitting from one thing to another. Let go of any stories like that for now and let’s manifest calm. The calmest, most balanced person in the world is only ever just calm in the moment. So let’s be that person and be calm in this moment. Letting your awareness drop into the sensations where you body contacts the ground. Simple, steady. Watching any thoughts that come up on the screen of the mind. Watching them, knowing them, but not getting caught up in them. Manifesting calm. Manifesting calm by being calm. Now let’s try sensitivity. The quality of moving through life with subtlety and depth. The most sensitive person is sensitive now. So let’s be that person. Starting by switching through our senses, noticing what’s most obvious through each of our sense doors. Noticing the physical sense, what is most prominent. Noticing sight, any objects which come to your attention. Noticing hearing, sounds that arise and sounds that fall away. Noticing tastes and smell if there’s anything here, or if it’s quite neutral. Noticing thinking, watching thoughts and leaving them alone. Another aspect of sensitivity is subtlety. So as before, asking yourself the question: What is the furthest sound you can hear right now? Letting your mind be open. And subtle. And sensitive. We all have these qualities within us. We just have to manifest them. To make them real. But ultimately you just have to be that person, moment by moment. Starting now.
Life and love and the moment
To visualize... and then make it so
CREATIVITY
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Despite a lifetime of creative success, Apple Music's Global Creative Director, Larry Jackson, didn't believe in the power of manifestation — until he learned a valuable lesson from Jennifer Hudson and her Pomeranian, Grammy.
Life and love and the moment
LARRY JACKSON: It’s funny, because my job as a music producer, an A&R executive, is to go out and find the best material – songs, songwriters, producers – and the best up-and-coming artists, and bring them together, and then will them into success. The job is entirely predicated upon finding things that aren’t yet in their fully realized form and bringing them into existence. I’m literally in the business of manifesting, I suppose. Discovering and unearthing – and again, manifesting. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Behind every great artist there are all sorts of people whose own dedication and creativity enable the stars to be the stars. Larry Jackson is one of those people. From his start in the music industry at the age of 11 to his current role as Global Creative Director at Apple Music, there aren’t many people who know more about how great music is made than Larry. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you restore yourself at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide on this episode of Meditative Story. From time to time, we’ll pause the story ever so briefly for me to come in with guidance to enhance your experience as you listen. I hope these prompts will be helpful to you. And let’s take a moment now to settle in before we hear from Larry. Letting whatever thoughts and feelings are around be around, letting them be here. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. JACKSON: I’m sitting in a cramped, hole-in-the-wall recording studio in Tampa. I await the arrival of a vocal powerhouse. She’s coming in to record a new song for her upcoming album. I’ve spent a large part of my professional life in state-of-the-art recording studios in Los Angeles, New York, London, Johannesburg, Paris. But our location today is pretty nondescript from the outside – and frankly isn’t much better when you get inside its control room. I’ve arrived early. An hour and a half later, in walks Jennifer Hudson – and she’s not alone. Two young Pomeranians are with her. I’d met one of them before. Its name is Oscar. But the other one, who I don’t recognize at all, is new. Jennifer introduces me to her second dog, which she’s named... Grammy. The pun and deliberacy have gone completely over my head. I ask her with a clueless naiveté why she’s chosen those two particular names, Oscar and Grammy. Very matter of factly, she says: “Well, I won an Oscar already, and now we about to win a Grammy, ain’t we?!” I feel my brow begin to sweat. My body stiffens. And I laugh uncontrollably at what’s being implied. The studio starts to feel even smaller and shabbier than it is. You see, I’m her producer. I signed Jennifer Hudson earlier that year. I’m 27. The stakes are high; and the pressure is palpable. Jennifer’s recording contract had been signed not long after she had captured the country’s heart as a standout contestant on “American Idol”, and right before she won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in the blockbuster movie, “Dreamgirls”. In my career, I’ve had the great fortune to work with so many incredible artists, ranging from Whitney Houston to Chicago rapper Chief Keef to the national treasure Aretha Franklin, and many more. I’ve forged trusting relationships with the best songwriters in the business as well. So when I started working with Jennifer, I think, okay, no problem. She’s got a remarkably unique vocal prowess and power, so the potential for a hit album is easy to visualize for me. Between her insane talent, the momentum around “Dreamgirls”, and my relationships with the creative community, it feels like this should crystallize quickly. But between that initial optimism and this moment in Tampa, it’s almost been a year and a half of toil and sporadic fruitfulness. Jennifer and I have travelled to London to record with Timbaland. We’ve spent time in Los Angeles, Atlanta, and a few other cities trying to decode this creative Rubik’s cube. Yet we still don’t have a first single to unlock her debut album’s potential. Though I’ll never admit it, it feels like this is a languishing process with no foreseeable end in sight. It feels like we have decent stuff but in many ways we’re nowhere… well actually in this tiny studio, in Tampa, with me, Jennifer, and a yappy Pomeranian who she had the bold confidence to name Grammy. We don’t leave that Florida recording session with our first single. But instead, I have a feeling of a heightened sense of pressure to finish this album – and not leave Oscar as the only one of those dogs who’s lived up to its name. In the meantime, though, a story had just come out in the press that her debut album, which I’m executive producing, had been scrapped by Clive Davis over creative differences in terms of its direction. While the story was a bit of an exaggeration, the struggle that I was experiencing was a very real and arduous challenge. I was feeling the heat and feeling quite daunted. While in London two weeks later, I’m at The Dorchester Hotel struggling deeply with jet lag at 4 am and decide to catch up on some overdue demo listening. At the top of the stack is the proposed demo for Jennifer’s song, titled “Spotlight” written by Ne Yo. I generally pride myself on being a one-listen creative executive. I feel if a song has hit potential after hearing the first verse and the first chorus. After countless days and nights of endlessly listening for needles in haystacks, I’ve honed this intuitive skill to a soulful science. And immediately when I hear this one, I know we have it. The track has the same bark as Aretha’s classic “Respect” and the same bite as her anthemic “Think”. He nailed it. I listen to the demo non-stop until the sun comes up. I can’t believe it. This is finally our first single. GUNATILLAKE: Can you picture the scene? Can you feel the energy and excitement that Larry’s feeling in this moment? Feel the sensation of finally finding what you’ve been looking for. JACKSON: And just like that, I somehow got all the colors to line up on our creative Rubik’s cube. I see it clearly. It unlocks everything. It unlocks the power of that album. Unlocks my waning confidence. Unlocks the future path of the project. Fast forward to September of that year: The song becomes a number one R&B single in the U.S. February rolls around and it’s the 2009 Grammy Awards – no less than a year after my first amusing encounter with Grammy, the moody, mercurial Pomeranian. We arrive late but right on time. Within moments of our taking our seats, Whitney Houston comes out to present the Grammy award for the year’s Best R&B Album. It’s been a great year in this genre and the competition is stiff and tough, to say the least. I’m 28 years old. It’s the first time I’ve ever been on the floor at the Grammys, where all of the decorated nominees are also seated. As it relates to Best Album categories, if you serve as album producer for the project, you win an award alongside with the artist. So as co-album producers, Clive Davis and I stand to take one home respectively that night as well. I’m excited yet nervous. Whitney opens up the envelope and announces the winner, it’s JENNIFER! I can’t believe it. As I stand to applaud Jennifer as she takes the stage to accept the award, all I can think of at that moment is Grammy the Pomeranian. She was right! It’s a celebratory night. The next morning it all hits me what an important moment it is for me personally. GUNATILLAKE: Can you recall an event in your life where you received some good news about a hard-won accomplishment? Can you remember what the space you were in at that time was like? Go there. JACKSON: My childhood helps me understand why the creative journey with Jennifer is one of my life’s turning points. At 10 years old, I was really obsessed with pop culture and our local radio station in San Francisco, 106 KMEL. I used my family’s black touch-tone phone in the kitchen to call radio contests all the time. It didn’t have any fancy features – no redial, no frills, nothing like that. And I was always punching in the numbers as fast as I could with my nimble little fingers as I attempted to be caller 10, caller 106, or whatever number was required to win. I’d push the buttons as fast as I could, and if I heard a busy signal, I’d hang up and start punching those numbers over and over again. I became so fast though and so proficient, so good at winning these contests that they finally said, “Kid, you can’t win anymore but we’d love to have you down to the station sometime soon for a tour and a hang.” That moment afforded me a unique opportunity to put my foot in the door. And slowly but surely I became a fixture there. At 11, my dad buys me my first two turntables and a microphone from Radio Shack. I amusingly created my first DJ booth in my bedroom. Practice, practice, practice. The next two years I was an apprentice at the radio station and practicing in my off-time at home. At 14, I’m a full-time intern now and a board op at KMEL, which by the way, is market number four in the entire country. By 16, I’m hired as the music director of the station, which has fallen to eighth place in the market. By age 17, I’m expelled from high school because I’m spread too thin across academics and work. At age 19, we triumphantly take the station back to its number one ratings position in the market – and then I get a call. The call is from legendary music impresario Clive Davis. If I had to explain it, on the Mount Rushmore of the music business, Clive Davis has got to be someone like George Washington. A legendary New York-based record producer who worked with countless artists ranging from Whitney Houston to Aerosmith to Alicia Keys to Bruce Springsteen and Notorious B.I.G. Clive says, “I hear you’ve got some of the best ears in radio! How about coming to New York for an interview. I’m starting a new record label. I think you’d be a great fit.” That phone call single handedly changes my life. From an early age, I’ve always made a lot of things happen for myself. But before I met Jennifer Hudson and, of course, Grammy the Pomeranian, I’d always been overly superstitious. I often thought that if I didn’t think something would happen, that it probably would happen. But I had it dead wrong. Jennifer showed me that the best way to make big things happen is to believe that they will so much that you name your tiny little dog after them to see them through. It’s funny, because my job as a music producer, an A&R executive, is to go out and find the best material – songs, songwriters, producers – and the best up-and-coming artists, and bring them together, and then will them into success. The job is entirely predicated upon finding things that aren’t yet in their fully realized form and bringing them into existence. I’m literally in the business of manifesting, I suppose. Discovering and unearthing – and again, manifesting. The creative geniuses I work with show me the power of believing. They visualize and then they make it so. Even though I never went to college, I somehow beat the statistics for African-American men who don’t, and willed a life of pursuing my passion based on knowing that I’m supposed to be here. That I belong. All someone had to do was pass me the ball – or rather all I had to do was get on the court and fight tenaciously for it. Manifestation wasn’t how I would have described it in my teens, but it’s clearly what it is. Seeing it blossom powerfully through the lens of another helped me understand how to better harness that power. All my life, I had been trying to visualize the future with my eyes closed. I only used my ears. Speak what you seek until you see what you say. That’s the creed, that’s the mantra, that’s the belief. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Larry’s story. While the idea of visualising future events in order to support their coming about is not so much a part of the mindfulness tradition, there is a related idea: manifesting qualities. No matter how you approach meditation, a good way of understanding what it’s all about is that it’s about growing qualities: qualities of mind and qualities of heart. Concentration, kindness, self-awareness, balance in times of difficulty and challenge – they’re all qualities we can manifest in ourselves. And the best way to do that is not to imagine them in our future but to actually realize them in our present. So if you dream of being an amazing, kind, compassionate person but that feels far away, the way to get there is by being kind now, in whatever way you can. If being calm under pressure or not being pushed around by your own negative thinking is the future you want to manifest, then see what you can do to be like that now. Steadiness, joy, sensitivity, presence with others – these are natural qualities we all have. And if we want to build them up, all we need to do is practice them, to work on those muscles, to reinforce those neural pathways. It’s not magic. It’s training. And we can do some now if you like. Letting your body be however it is. Encouraging relaxation. Relaxing any tension in your face, your hands, your belly. Letting your mind be however it is. Encouraging letting go. Watching any thoughts and ideas come up and drift away. No real need to get tangled up in them or give them any solidity. Breathing. Breathing. And let’s start with calm. We may tell ourselves the story that we’re not calm at all, that our minds are all over the place, flitting from one thing to another. Let go of any stories like that for now and let’s manifest calm. The calmest, most balanced person in the world is only ever just calm in the moment. So let’s be that person and be calm in this moment. Letting your awareness drop into the sensations where you body contacts the ground. Simple, steady. Watching any thoughts that come up on the screen of the mind. Watching them, knowing them, but not getting caught up in them. Manifesting calm. Manifesting calm by being calm. Now let’s try sensitivity. The quality of moving through life with subtlety and depth. The most sensitive person is sensitive now. So let’s be that person. Starting by switching through our senses, noticing what’s most obvious through each of our sense doors. Noticing the physical sense, what is most prominent. Noticing sight, any objects which come to your attention. Noticing hearing, sounds that arise and sounds that fall away. Noticing tastes and smell if there’s anything here, or if it’s quite neutral. Noticing thinking, watching thoughts and leaving them alone. Another aspect of sensitivity is subtlety. So as before, asking yourself the question: What is the furthest sound you can hear right now? Letting your mind be open. And subtle. And sensitive. We all have these qualities within us. We just have to manifest them. To make them real. But ultimately you just have to be that person, moment by moment. Starting now.
Episode Transcript
About Larry Jackson
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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To visualize... and then make it so
From the closing meditation
About Larry Jackson
From the closing meditation
Life and love and the moment
Larry Jackson is the head of Apple Music and a legendary music producer. But despite his success, he felt he didn't really control his destiny. He's sharing his story of how he learned to visualize what he wanted and achieve it: "You can actually manifest your destiny. If you will it to be true, it can happen. And I want other people to believe that too."
“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy thefreedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern betweenwhat it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
Listen
CREATIVITY
Despite a lifetime of creative success, Apple Music's Global Creative Director, Larry Jackson, didn't believe in the power of manifestation — until he learned a valuable lesson from Jennifer Hudson and her Pomeranian, Grammy.
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Arianna Huffington
CREATIVITY
As the Global Creative Director at Apple Music, Larry Jackson has signed deals with Drake, Frank Ocean, Nicki Minaj, The Weeknd and many others. He helped launch Apple Music, the fastest-growing entertainment subscription service to date; for the past three years, Billboard has ranked him on its Power 100. Previously, working with Clive Davis at RCA (where he was head of A&R and president of Arista Records), he produced albums for Whitney Houston and won a Grammy for Jennifer Hudson's debut album. Joining Jimmy Iovine at Interscope, he signed Lana Del Rey and became the Head of Content for Beats Music — all while managing Kanye West.
LARRY JACKSON
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LARRY JACKSON
Episode Transcript
Larry Jackson is the head of Apple Music and a legendary music producer. But despite his success, he felt he didn't really control his destiny. He's sharing his story of how he learned to visualize what he wanted and achieve it: "You can actually manifest your destiny. If you will it to be true, it can happen. And I want other people to believe that too."
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"No matter how you approach meditation, a good way of understanding what it's all about is that it's about growing qualities. Qualities of mind and qualities of heart. Concentration, kindness, self-awareness, balance in times of difficult and challenge — they're all qualities that we can manifest in ourselves. And the best way to do that is not to imagine them in our future but to actually realise them in our present. So if you dream of being an amazing kind, compassionate person, but that feels far away, the way to get there is by being kind now, in whatever way you can."
LARRY JACKSON: It’s funny, because my job as a music producer, an A&R executive, is to go out and find the best material – songs, songwriters, producers – and the best up-and-coming artists, and bring them together, and then will them into success. The job is entirely predicated upon finding things that aren’t yet in their fully realized form and bringing them into existence. I’m literally in the business of manifesting, I suppose. Discovering and unearthing – and again, manifesting. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Behind every great artist there are all sorts of people whose own dedication and creativity enable the stars to be the stars. Larry Jackson is one of those people. From his start in the music industry at the age of 11 to his current role as Global Creative Director at Apple Music, there aren’t many people who know more about how great music is made than Larry. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you restore yourself at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide on this episode of Meditative Story. From time to time, we’ll pause the story ever so briefly for me to come in with guidance to enhance your experience as you listen. I hope these prompts will be helpful to you. And let’s take a moment now to settle in before we hear from Larry. Letting whatever thoughts and feelings are around be around, letting them be here. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. JACKSON: I’m sitting in a cramped, hole-in-the-wall recording studio in Tampa. I await the arrival of a vocal powerhouse. She’s coming in to record a new song for her upcoming album. I’ve spent a large part of my professional life in state-of-the-art recording studios in Los Angeles, New York, London, Johannesburg, Paris. But our location today is pretty nondescript from the outside – and frankly isn’t much better when you get inside its control room. I’ve arrived early. An hour and a half later, in walks Jennifer Hudson – and she’s not alone. Two young Pomeranians are with her. I’d met one of them before. Its name is Oscar. But the other one, who I don’t recognize at all, is new. Jennifer introduces me to her second dog, which she’s named... Grammy. The pun and deliberacy have gone completely over my head. I ask her with a clueless naiveté why she’s chosen those two particular names, Oscar and Grammy. Very matter of factly, she says: “Well, I won an Oscar already, and now we about to win a Grammy, ain’t we?!” I feel my brow begin to sweat. My body stiffens. And I laugh uncontrollably at what’s being implied. The studio starts to feel even smaller and shabbier than it is. You see, I’m her producer. I signed Jennifer Hudson earlier that year. I’m 27. The stakes are high; and the pressure is palpable. Jennifer’s recording contract had been signed not long after she had captured the country’s heart as a standout contestant on “American Idol”, and right before she won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in the blockbuster movie, “Dreamgirls”. In my career, I’ve had the great fortune to work with so many incredible artists, ranging from Whitney Houston to Chicago rapper Chief Keef to the national treasure Aretha Franklin, and many more. I’ve forged trusting relationships with the best songwriters in the business as well. So when I started working with Jennifer, I think, okay, no problem. She’s got a remarkably unique vocal prowess and power, so the potential for a hit album is easy to visualize for me. Between her insane talent, the momentum around “Dreamgirls”, and my relationships with the creative community, it feels like this should crystallize quickly. But between that initial optimism and this moment in Tampa, it’s almost been a year and a half of toil and sporadic fruitfulness. Jennifer and I have travelled to London to record with Timbaland. We’ve spent time in Los Angeles, Atlanta, and a few other cities trying to decode this creative Rubik’s cube. Yet we still don’t have a first single to unlock her debut album’s potential. Though I’ll never admit it, it feels like this is a languishing process with no foreseeable end in sight. It feels like we have decent stuff but in many ways we’re nowhere… well actually in this tiny studio, in Tampa, with me, Jennifer, and a yappy Pomeranian who she had the bold confidence to name Grammy. We don’t leave that Florida recording session with our first single. But instead, I have a feeling of a heightened sense of pressure to finish this album – and not leave Oscar as the only one of those dogs who’s lived up to its name. In the meantime, though, a story had just come out in the press that her debut album, which I’m executive producing, had been scrapped by Clive Davis over creative differences in terms of its direction. While the story was a bit of an exaggeration, the struggle that I was experiencing was a very real and arduous challenge. I was feeling the heat and feeling quite daunted. While in London two weeks later, I’m at The Dorchester Hotel struggling deeply with jet lag at 4 am and decide to catch up on some overdue demo listening. At the top of the stack is the proposed demo for Jennifer’s song, titled “Spotlight” written by Ne Yo. I generally pride myself on being a one-listen creative executive. I feel if a song has hit potential after hearing the first verse and the first chorus. After countless days and nights of endlessly listening for needles in haystacks, I’ve honed this intuitive skill to a soulful science. And immediately when I hear this one, I know we have it. The track has the same bark as Aretha’s classic “Respect” and the same bite as her anthemic “Think”. He nailed it. I listen to the demo non-stop until the sun comes up. I can’t believe it. This is finally our first single. GUNATILLAKE: Can you picture the scene? Can you feel the energy and excitement that Larry’s feeling in this moment? Feel the sensation of finally finding what you’ve been looking for. JACKSON: And just like that, I somehow got all the colors to line up on our creative Rubik’s cube. I see it clearly. It unlocks everything. It unlocks the power of that album. Unlocks my waning confidence. Unlocks the future path of the project. Fast forward to September of that year: The song becomes a number one R&B single in the U.S. February rolls around and it’s the 2009 Grammy Awards – no less than a year after my first amusing encounter with Grammy, the moody, mercurial Pomeranian. We arrive late but right on time. Within moments of our taking our seats, Whitney Houston comes out to present the Grammy award for the year’s Best R&B Album. It’s been a great year in this genre and the competition is stiff and tough, to say the least. I’m 28 years old. It’s the first time I’ve ever been on the floor at the Grammys, where all of the decorated nominees are also seated. As it relates to Best Album categories, if you serve as album producer for the project, you win an award alongside with the artist. So as co-album producers, Clive Davis and I stand to take one home respectively that night as well. I’m excited yet nervous. Whitney opens up the envelope and announces the winner, it’s JENNIFER! I can’t believe it. As I stand to applaud Jennifer as she takes the stage to accept the award, all I can think of at that moment is Grammy the Pomeranian. She was right! It’s a celebratory night. The next morning it all hits me what an important moment it is for me personally. GUNATILLAKE: Can you recall an event in your life where you received some good news about a hard-won accomplishment? Can you remember what the space you were in at that time was like? Go there. JACKSON: My childhood helps me understand why the creative journey with Jennifer is one of my life’s turning points. At 10 years old, I was really obsessed with pop culture and our local radio station in San Francisco, 106 KMEL. I used my family’s black touch-tone phone in the kitchen to call radio contests all the time. It didn’t have any fancy features – no redial, no frills, nothing like that. And I was always punching in the numbers as fast as I could with my nimble little fingers as I attempted to be caller 10, caller 106, or whatever number was required to win. I’d push the buttons as fast as I could, and if I heard a busy signal, I’d hang up and start punching those numbers over and over again. I became so fast though and so proficient, so good at winning these contests that they finally said, “Kid, you can’t win anymore but we’d love to have you down to the station sometime soon for a tour and a hang.” That moment afforded me a unique opportunity to put my foot in the door. And slowly but surely I became a fixture there. At 11, my dad buys me my first two turntables and a microphone from Radio Shack. I amusingly created my first DJ booth in my bedroom. Practice, practice, practice. The next two years I was an apprentice at the radio station and practicing in my off-time at home. At 14, I’m a full-time intern now and a board op at KMEL, which by the way, is market number four in the entire country. By 16, I’m hired as the music director of the station, which has fallen to eighth place in the market. By age 17, I’m expelled from high school because I’m spread too thin across academics and work. At age 19, we triumphantly take the station back to its number one ratings position in the market – and then I get a call. The call is from legendary music impresario Clive Davis. If I had to explain it, on the Mount Rushmore of the music business, Clive Davis has got to be someone like George Washington. A legendary New York-based record producer who worked with countless artists ranging from Whitney Houston to Aerosmith to Alicia Keys to Bruce Springsteen and Notorious B.I.G. Clive says, “I hear you’ve got some of the best ears in radio! How about coming to New York for an interview. I’m starting a new record label. I think you’d be a great fit.” That phone call single handedly changes my life. From an early age, I’ve always made a lot of things happen for myself. But before I met Jennifer Hudson and, of course, Grammy the Pomeranian, I’d always been overly superstitious. I often thought that if I didn’t think something would happen, that it probably would happen. But I had it dead wrong. Jennifer showed me that the best way to make big things happen is to believe that they will so much that you name your tiny little dog after them to see them through. It’s funny, because my job as a music producer, an A&R executive, is to go out and find the best material – songs, songwriters, producers – and the best up-and-coming artists, and bring them together, and then will them into success. The job is entirely predicated upon finding things that aren’t yet in their fully realized form and bringing them into existence. I’m literally in the business of manifesting, I suppose. Discovering and unearthing – and again, manifesting. The creative geniuses I work with show me the power of believing. They visualize and then they make it so. Even though I never went to college, I somehow beat the statistics for African-American men who don’t, and willed a life of pursuing my passion based on knowing that I’m supposed to be here. That I belong. All someone had to do was pass me the ball – or rather all I had to do was get on the court and fight tenaciously for it. Manifestation wasn’t how I would have described it in my teens, but it’s clearly what it is. Seeing it blossom powerfully through the lens of another helped me understand how to better harness that power. All my life, I had been trying to visualize the future with my eyes closed. I only used my ears. Speak what you seek until you see what you say. That’s the creed, that’s the mantra, that’s the belief. GUNATILLAKE: We’ve reached the end of Larry’s story. While the idea of visualising future events in order to support their coming about is not so much a part of the mindfulness tradition, there is a related idea: manifesting qualities. No matter how you approach meditation, a good way of understanding what it’s all about is that it’s about growing qualities: qualities of mind and qualities of heart. Concentration, kindness, self-awareness, balance in times of difficulty and challenge – they’re all qualities we can manifest in ourselves. And the best way to do that is not to imagine them in our future but to actually realize them in our present. So if you dream of being an amazing, kind, compassionate person but that feels far away, the way to get there is by being kind now, in whatever way you can. If being calm under pressure or not being pushed around by your own negative thinking is the future you want to manifest, then see what you can do to be like that now. Steadiness, joy, sensitivity, presence with others – these are natural qualities we all have. And if we want to build them up, all we need to do is practice them, to work on those muscles, to reinforce those neural pathways. It’s not magic. It’s training. And we can do some now if you like. Letting your body be however it is. Encouraging relaxation. Relaxing any tension in your face, your hands, your belly. Letting your mind be however it is. Encouraging letting go. Watching any thoughts and ideas come up and drift away. No real need to get tangled up in them or give them any solidity. Breathing. Breathing. And let’s start with calm. We may tell ourselves the story that we’re not calm at all, that our minds are all over the place, flitting from one thing to another. Let go of any stories like that for now and let’s manifest calm. The calmest, most balanced person in the world is only ever just calm in the moment. So let’s be that person and be calm in this moment. Letting your awareness drop into the sensations where you body contacts the ground. Simple, steady. Watching any thoughts that come up on the screen of the mind. Watching them, knowing them, but not getting caught up in them. Manifesting calm. Manifesting calm by being calm. Now let’s try sensitivity. The quality of moving through life with subtlety and depth. The most sensitive person is sensitive now. So let’s be that person. Starting by switching through our senses, noticing what’s most obvious through each of our sense doors. Noticing the physical sense, what is most prominent. Noticing sight, any objects which come to your attention. Noticing hearing, sounds that arise and sounds that fall away. Noticing tastes and smell if there’s anything here, or if it’s quite neutral. Noticing thinking, watching thoughts and leaving them alone. Another aspect of sensitivity is subtlety. So as before, asking yourself the question: What is the furthest sound you can hear right now? Letting your mind be open. And subtle. And sensitive. We all have these qualities within us. We just have to manifest them. To make them real. But ultimately you just have to be that person, moment by moment. Starting now.
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Arianna Huffington
Larry Jackson is the head of Apple Music and a legendary music producer. But despite his success, he felt he didn't really control his destiny. He's sharing his story of how he learned to visualize what he wanted and achieve it: "You can actually manifest your destiny. If you will it to be true, it can happen. And I want other people to believe that too."
CONNECTION
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Despite a lifetime of creative success, Apple Music's Global Creative Director, Larry Jackson, didn't believe in the power of manifestation — until he learned a valuable lesson from Jennifer Hudson and her Pomeranian, Grammy.
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From the closing meditation
DISCOVERY
About Larry Jackson
Episode Transcript
“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy thefreedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern betweenwhat it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
Arianna Huffington
From the closing meditation
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
CONNECTION
About Michelle Thaller
PERSPECTIVE
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Michelle Thaller
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Dr. Michelle Thaller is the Assistant Director of Science at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. She has a bachelor’s in astrophysics from Harvard and a Ph.D. from Georgia State University. After a post-doctoral research fellowship at Caltech, she became particularly interested in public outreach and science communication, and served as the public outreach lead for the Spitzer Space Telescope at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. She has also worked at NASA Headquarters in Washington, DC, on strategic communications for all of NASA. Outside of her work, Michelle is one of the regular hosts of Discovery Science Channel’s “How the Universe Works” and "Space's Deepest Secrets." Michelle hosted the podcast “Orbital Path” for PRX, and appears on Big Think. She has received several high-profile awards for online science journalism and science leadership.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Arianna Huffington
Episode Transcript
MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
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Arianna Huffington
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
As an astronomer and science communicator, Michelle Thaller thinks deeply about our place in the universe. In her Meditative Story, she explores the significance of a single human — you — in a universe so immense that your very existence is of no consequence ... yet of every consequence.
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
WONDER
Episode Transcript
About Michelle Thaller
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
As an astronomer and science communicator, Michelle Thaller thinks deeply about our place in the universe. In her Meditative Story, she explores the significance of a single human — you — in a universe so immense that your very existence is of no consequence ... yet of every consequence.
"The night-time sky has long been a source of awe and wonder. There’s something about looking up and connecting with that vast expanse above that dilutes and reframes whatever issues we’re dealing with at the time. Michelle put it beautifully, the universe isn’t moved by whatever limitations we put upon ourselves. We are a part of it all the same. Held in its vastness. Part of that vastness. Made of it even."
MICHELLE THALLER: Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I’ve always loved looking up at a clear night sky full of stars, space, and questions. And few people know what’s up there better than astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller. In today’s episode, Michelle takes us up to the heavens, to consider our significance and connectedness in a universe whose scale means that human life is almost imperceptible. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. From time to time, you’ll hear me come in with a brief prompt. Some may help you settle in more deeply. Others, perhaps not so much. Either way, just stay inside the story. That’s all you need to do to feel its effect. Before we hear from Michelle, let’s take just a little time to settle. If you can see the sky, look up at it. If you can’t – and it’s safe to do so – just look up at the space above you. And feel the sensations of your feet on the ground at the same time. Aware of the space around you. And at the same time grounded, connected to the earth. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. THALLER: For nearly my entire life, I have felt lonely. I have no memory of when this started – and now I have no idea what it would be like to experience a single moment of my life without it. I constantly struggle with feelings of isolation from other people, from myself, from life. But for as long as I can remember, there’s one place I don’t feel lonely: under a clear, star-filled sky. I have no idea why this should be the case; honestly, it makes no sense at all. My mother told me that she used to find me, barely able to walk, trying to go outside and look at the stars. They’ve always felt like old friends, and they make me feel safe. Now I’m a professional astronomer, but that emotional response has never changed. Even now, when I’ve spent decades learning the physics of the hot gases in their interiors, doing the math to calculate their orbits, I still go outside just to look at them with my own eyes. I need to. I need to spend time with my friends. I felt this way even before I knew what the stars were, and now that I know much more about them, it turns out that my instincts were deeply, almost strangely, correct. I think most of us have some idea that astronomers are people who live with things much larger than themselves. Stars are huge almost unimaginably so, and the distances to them intractable. And that’s the smallest end of the astronomical scale. Galaxies are larger still, monsters too vast to comprehend; elegant rotating disks of hundreds of billions of stars, uncountable trillions of miles across. Scales of time are everywhere around you too. We study the lives of the stars, although a human lifespan to them is like a tiny two-winged midge that is born, breeds, and dies in a day. Some stars live only a few million years – a fast, intense life in stellar terms – while others will live longer than time has yet existed. But stars honor a lifecycle like everything in the universe: they are born, live, and die. And we are a consequence of this cycle. I would not be standing here, looking up at the sky, had not generations of stars lived and died to bring me here, to this moment. This is an incredible thing to know, and it remains my favorite single fact. At the beginning of the universe, only the very simplest atoms existed. Nowhere, in the entirety of space, was there a single bit of the stuff that makes you into the being that you are; no oxygen, carbon, calcium. Deep in the core of stars, simple atoms are fused together into larger, more complex ones. The largest ones are not easy to make; they take the death of a star. The actual moment of death for a giant star is one of the few things in the sky that actually happens quickly, to a human sensibility: they explode violently in what we call a supernova explosion. It’s in this explosion that all the larger atoms of the universe are created. Every atom of iron, from the metal in your cooking pans to the tiny mineral reserves in your blood that turn it red, is formed from these moments of death; entire solar systems ripping themselves apart in an instant. An Instant. And you can see these, all over the sky, on a dark night in California. Perched in the hills on the outskirts of San Diego, the Mount Palomar telescope is a grand relic from the middle of the last century. Its mirror first saw light in 1948, and is one of the greatest accomplishments of humankind. The 200 inch Hale Telescope on Mount Palomar is the most beautiful piece of technology ever built. Unlike today’s telescopes, which are certainly more powerful, the Hale is breathtakingly elegant. The classically-proportioned dome is large enough to cast the central behemoth into shadow, and the telescope itself is long enough to make it feel that you’re actually sighting the stars. It’s an example of lost technology, not unlike the Pyramids or Stonehenge. Every single time I go to Mount Palomar as an astronomer, I feel a wonderful, dissonant feeling of being in a sacred temple, and being a joyous, disbelieving child erroneously left alone among treasure by careless adults. I can never believe I’m allowed to enter that space. Even the path to Palomar feels like a journey away from the mundane world. Switchback roads that never fail to disorient me and make me a little seasick, a desert that gives way to tall trees and far vistas around each turn. The smell of pine and dust on the way up. Then I open the doors of the observatory and I’m greeted by the scent of marble hallways and the mellow old grease that coats the vast gears under the floor that have turned the telescope to track the stars for 70 years. I set up my experiment for the night, which requires the giant eye to stare at the same tiny part of the sky for many hours, and I settle in for a long night. GUNATILLAKE: How settled do you feel right now? As settled as Michelle, ready for her long night observing the heavens? Or do you have a sliver of impatience, the mind restless to move onto what's next? Note it and come back to your breath. THALLER: With some time to spare, I go outside to walk around the dome, scan the sky for any approaching weather, and honestly, just enjoy the moment with the unaltered night sky. No telescopes, small or giant, needed. My old friends are a comfort to my warm, living eyes. I wander over to check in with astronomers working in a nearby building that houses another old telescope that’s been repurposed for modern research – in this case, it scans the skies looking for the brief blasts of light that indicate a massive star has died, exploded in a supernova. I ask the woman working that night how many supernovas she’s found so far. “A dozen tonight,” she tells me. I walk back through the woods and look back up at the sky, I feel unequal to the task of even trying to understand what that means. In one evening, a dozen star systems, complete with any planets or life around them, came to a violent and sudden end, blown to bits. A dozen. In a few hours. This goes on around us every night, every day, every hour. And from the debris of that death comes every thing, literally every atom, we need for life. Spreading their nuclear-furnaced debris back into space, the galaxy now has more of the stuff of life to work with. I wouldn’t be here tonight had many millions of stars not died before. Some atoms in my body were formed, literally, a hundred thousand trillion miles away from where I sit tonight. I am vast. Me. And I am alive. And I’m soaked to the core of my existence in death; unimaginably vast death. Birth and death bonded together cheek to jowl, so tightly that one leaks into the other, across a galaxy. That is what I am. That is what you are. The story of the universe doesn't care if you think you’re worthy or not, if you wish to embrace this truth or reject it. There is no possible way for the universe to judge you; none of our human-made barriers or classifications exist. GUNATILLAKE: We spend so much of our lives, within the containers of labels and classifications. Labels put there by others, or by ourselves. What might it be like to not be judged at all? How freeing would it be? THALLER: Often, I feel overwhelmed with even my small, limited perception of the larger universe and my deep connection to it. Sometimes, I honestly can only deal with it by letting go. At this scale, so large and so small, there are no expectations. Everything can drop away. Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. What expectations have you put on yourself, your life, others, other lives? I spent the last few decades of my life pushing so hard. I constantly feel inadequate, not smart enough, not hard-working enough, just plain wrong. I constantly yearn to feel accepted, be part of a family. I crave connection and intimacy. These feelings have led me to try to hold on to people too fiercely, fall in love too quickly, fear change too intensely. At times, it has driven people away. I learned to push my emotions so deep down, I couldn’t even feel them anymore. I thought this was being strong, and I was proud of my control. The only problem was, it didn’t work. I became more and more stressed, then pushed harder and harder, until it all came crashing down and I had to, for the first time in my life, actually listen to my feelings. This is also the universe trying to know itself; there is nothing less perfect about your real, authentic self, no matter your expectations. You can just let go. You can even let go of the shame of not being able to let go. Don’t let this be another way to judge yourself. The loneliness and fear and insecurity are still here with me – and always will be. And they are also part of the lesson the universe is trying to learn through my tiny life. The universe doesn’t care about the definitions, limitations, and expectations you’ve put on yourself. You are part of it just by existing. And so is everyone around you, as well as everything around you – every bird and flower, and rock and wave. GUNATILLAKE: You can just let go. It's not always easy, but you can just let go. THALLER: There is another amazing secret that even today, scientists are teasing out of the universe. For more than 100 years now, going back to the work of Albert Einstein, we have begun to understand that time is not a progression, not a river that runs in one direction. Instead, time is a landscape, much like space. From the right perspective (and yes, unfortunately one that three-dimensional creatures like us can’t see), all of time would be laid out before you, every instant that has ever existed or will ever exist. There's really nothing more real about this moment right now than moments that are billions of years in the future or millions of years in what we think of as the past. Not only am I made of life and death, but I am, individually, all those things at once. The earth has not formed yet. The sun has died and all the stars gone dark for uncountable trillions of years. Now. I think of that when contemplating love and loss; it helps me, honestly just a little, but it does help me, to deal with the fear and loneliness that are as much a part of my life as breath. I've said to my husband, "When the universe began, I was holding your hand, and when the universe ends, I'll be holding your hand." And we actually believe that to be literally true. GUNATILLAKE: The nighttime sky has long been a source of awe and wonder. There’s something about looking up and connecting with that vast expanse above that dilutes and reframes whatever issues we’re dealing with at the time. Michelle put it beautifully: the universe isn’t moved by whatever limitations we put upon ourselves. We are a part of it all the same. Held in its vastness. Part of that vastness. Made of it even. So with your permission, let me guide you through a meditation flowing from that theme. If it’s safe and comfortable to close your eyes, then please do so. And if you can’t right now, that’s totally fine, the practice will still work for you, but you might want to try it again at a time when you can be still with eyes closed. That might be fun. Ok. Relaxing your body. Relaxing your mind. Letting your eyelids rest softly closed, if that’s ok. Your face, your hands, your belly relaxed. And as you relax, let your attention settle on the inner cinema screen of your mind, the screen of your imagination. Begin by picturing yourself in the space that you’re in. Just as it is. Imagine the setting, the layout. And feel yourself really inhabiting that place. Now allow the picture to expand to include your city. Perhaps as one of those top-down aerial shots. See how much space you take up in this view, how much smaller you are. Now expand your imagination even further, to the region you’re in, and then to the country. Notice where you are in this picture. Now we’re going to allow the aerial shot to go all the way into space. Imagine seeing the Earth from the moon. See where you are on the planet. Notice how vast the earth is. The oceans, the land masses, the weather systems. Now expand even further out, moving away from the sun. Past Mars, Jupiter, past Saturn and its rings. The sun shrinking and the Earth – where we are – starting to vanish from sight entirely. Now allow your minds eye to move out even further, all the way to the point where you're taking in the whole of the Milky Way galaxy. How much space do you take up at this scale? What does this vantage point bring up for you? Awe? Fear? Confusion? Wonder? During this whole thought experiment, every single thing you’ve imagined has been in your mind. You didn't physically travel out to the edge of space. You imagined your way through a series of complex thoughts. So, notice that as you sit, stand or lie here, not only are thoughts arising in your awareness, but so is every other aspect of your experience: sights, sounds, smells, taste. The sensations of your body. They all wash through your experience. Sensations which arise, stick around for a while and then move on. Notice how not a single thing arises outside of your experience. All of this is happening in your awareness. Furthermore, it's the only experience you've ever known. Can you think of anything that you've ever known which you didn't know through your direct experience? From this vantage point, every single thing you’ve thought, felt, or known has arisen within this human experience of ours. Anything you can imagine as being outside of it, including the vast magnitudes of space, arises as a thought within this experience. We are the universe knowing itself. We are made of stars. So if it helps to remember that when faced with something which closes down our sense of wonder, which contracts us, then my invitation would be to do so. And I’m sure that Michelle would agree.
About Michelle Thaller
From the closing meditation
Life and love and the moment
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MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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MICHELLE THALLER
Life and love and the moment
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
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MICHELLE THALLER
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Dr. Michelle Thaller is the Assistant Director of Science at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. She has a bachelor’s in astrophysics from Harvard and a Ph.D. from Georgia State University. After a post-doctoral research fellowship at Caltech, she became particularly interested in public outreach and science communication, and served as the public outreach lead for the Spitzer Space Telescope at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. She has also worked at NASA Headquarters in Washington, DC, on strategic communications for all of NASA. Outside of her work, Michelle is one of the regular hosts of Discovery Science Channel’s “How the Universe Works” and "Space's Deepest Secrets." Michelle hosted the podcast “Orbital Path” for PRX, and appears on Big Think. She has received several high-profile awards for online science journalism and science leadership.
Dr. Michelle Thaller is the Assistant Director of Science at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. She has a bachelor’s in astrophysics from Harvard and a Ph.D. from Georgia State University. After a post-doctoral research fellowship at Caltech, she became particularly interested in public outreach and science communication, and served as the public outreach lead for the Spitzer Space Telescope at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. She has also worked at NASA Headquarters in Washington, DC, on strategic communications for all of NASA. Outside of her work, Michelle is one of the regular hosts of Discovery Science Channel’s “How the Universe Works” and "Space's Deepest Secrets." Michelle hosted the podcast “Orbital Path” for PRX, and appears on Big Think. She has received several high-profile awards for online science journalism and science leadership.
MICHELLE THALLER
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"The night-time sky has long been a source of awe and wonder. There’s something about looking up and connecting with that vast expanse above that dilutes and reframes whatever issues we’re dealing with at the time. Michelle put it beautifully, the universe isn’t moved by whatever limitations we put upon ourselves. We are a part of it all the same. Held in its vastness. Part of that vastness. Made of it even."
MICHELLE THALLER: Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I’ve always loved looking up at a clear night sky full of stars, space, and questions. And few people know what’s up there better than astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller. In today’s episode, Michelle takes us up to the heavens, to consider our significance and connectedness in a universe whose scale means that human life is almost imperceptible. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. From time to time, you’ll hear me come in with a brief prompt. Some may help you settle in more deeply. Others, perhaps not so much. Either way, just stay inside the story. That’s all you need to do to feel its effect. Before we hear from Michelle, let’s take just a little time to settle. If you can see the sky, look up at it. If you can’t – and it’s safe to do so – just look up at the space above you. And feel the sensations of your feet on the ground at the same time. Aware of the space around you. And at the same time grounded, connected to the earth. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. THALLER: For nearly my entire life, I have felt lonely. I have no memory of when this started – and now I have no idea what it would be like to experience a single moment of my life without it. I constantly struggle with feelings of isolation from other people, from myself, from life. But for as long as I can remember, there’s one place I don’t feel lonely: under a clear, star-filled sky. I have no idea why this should be the case; honestly, it makes no sense at all. My mother told me that she used to find me, barely able to walk, trying to go outside and look at the stars. They’ve always felt like old friends, and they make me feel safe. Now I’m a professional astronomer, but that emotional response has never changed. Even now, when I’ve spent decades learning the physics of the hot gases in their interiors, doing the math to calculate their orbits, I still go outside just to look at them with my own eyes. I need to. I need to spend time with my friends. I felt this way even before I knew what the stars were, and now that I know much more about them, it turns out that my instincts were deeply, almost strangely, correct. I think most of us have some idea that astronomers are people who live with things much larger than themselves. Stars are huge almost unimaginably so, and the distances to them intractable. And that’s the smallest end of the astronomical scale. Galaxies are larger still, monsters too vast to comprehend; elegant rotating disks of hundreds of billions of stars, uncountable trillions of miles across. Scales of time are everywhere around you too. We study the lives of the stars, although a human lifespan to them is like a tiny two-winged midge that is born, breeds, and dies in a day. Some stars live only a few million years – a fast, intense life in stellar terms – while others will live longer than time has yet existed. But stars honor a lifecycle like everything in the universe: they are born, live, and die. And we are a consequence of this cycle. I would not be standing here, looking up at the sky, had not generations of stars lived and died to bring me here, to this moment. This is an incredible thing to know, and it remains my favorite single fact. At the beginning of the universe, only the very simplest atoms existed. Nowhere, in the entirety of space, was there a single bit of the stuff that makes you into the being that you are; no oxygen, carbon, calcium. Deep in the core of stars, simple atoms are fused together into larger, more complex ones. The largest ones are not easy to make; they take the death of a star. The actual moment of death for a giant star is one of the few things in the sky that actually happens quickly, to a human sensibility: they explode violently in what we call a supernova explosion. It’s in this explosion that all the larger atoms of the universe are created. Every atom of iron, from the metal in your cooking pans to the tiny mineral reserves in your blood that turn it red, is formed from these moments of death; entire solar systems ripping themselves apart in an instant. An Instant. And you can see these, all over the sky, on a dark night in California. Perched in the hills on the outskirts of San Diego, the Mount Palomar telescope is a grand relic from the middle of the last century. Its mirror first saw light in 1948, and is one of the greatest accomplishments of humankind. The 200 inch Hale Telescope on Mount Palomar is the most beautiful piece of technology ever built. Unlike today’s telescopes, which are certainly more powerful, the Hale is breathtakingly elegant. The classically-proportioned dome is large enough to cast the central behemoth into shadow, and the telescope itself is long enough to make it feel that you’re actually sighting the stars. It’s an example of lost technology, not unlike the Pyramids or Stonehenge. Every single time I go to Mount Palomar as an astronomer, I feel a wonderful, dissonant feeling of being in a sacred temple, and being a joyous, disbelieving child erroneously left alone among treasure by careless adults. I can never believe I’m allowed to enter that space. Even the path to Palomar feels like a journey away from the mundane world. Switchback roads that never fail to disorient me and make me a little seasick, a desert that gives way to tall trees and far vistas around each turn. The smell of pine and dust on the way up. Then I open the doors of the observatory and I’m greeted by the scent of marble hallways and the mellow old grease that coats the vast gears under the floor that have turned the telescope to track the stars for 70 years. I set up my experiment for the night, which requires the giant eye to stare at the same tiny part of the sky for many hours, and I settle in for a long night. GUNATILLAKE: How settled do you feel right now? As settled as Michelle, ready for her long night observing the heavens? Or do you have a sliver of impatience, the mind restless to move onto what's next? Note it and come back to your breath. THALLER: With some time to spare, I go outside to walk around the dome, scan the sky for any approaching weather, and honestly, just enjoy the moment with the unaltered night sky. No telescopes, small or giant, needed. My old friends are a comfort to my warm, living eyes. I wander over to check in with astronomers working in a nearby building that houses another old telescope that’s been repurposed for modern research – in this case, it scans the skies looking for the brief blasts of light that indicate a massive star has died, exploded in a supernova. I ask the woman working that night how many supernovas she’s found so far. “A dozen tonight,” she tells me. I walk back through the woods and look back up at the sky, I feel unequal to the task of even trying to understand what that means. In one evening, a dozen star systems, complete with any planets or life around them, came to a violent and sudden end, blown to bits. A dozen. In a few hours. This goes on around us every night, every day, every hour. And from the debris of that death comes every thing, literally every atom, we need for life. Spreading their nuclear-furnaced debris back into space, the galaxy now has more of the stuff of life to work with. I wouldn’t be here tonight had many millions of stars not died before. Some atoms in my body were formed, literally, a hundred thousand trillion miles away from where I sit tonight. I am vast. Me. And I am alive. And I’m soaked to the core of my existence in death; unimaginably vast death. Birth and death bonded together cheek to jowl, so tightly that one leaks into the other, across a galaxy. That is what I am. That is what you are. The story of the universe doesn't care if you think you’re worthy or not, if you wish to embrace this truth or reject it. There is no possible way for the universe to judge you; none of our human-made barriers or classifications exist. GUNATILLAKE: We spend so much of our lives, within the containers of labels and classifications. Labels put there by others, or by ourselves. What might it be like to not be judged at all? How freeing would it be? THALLER: Often, I feel overwhelmed with even my small, limited perception of the larger universe and my deep connection to it. Sometimes, I honestly can only deal with it by letting go. At this scale, so large and so small, there are no expectations. Everything can drop away. Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. What expectations have you put on yourself, your life, others, other lives? I spent the last few decades of my life pushing so hard. I constantly feel inadequate, not smart enough, not hard-working enough, just plain wrong. I constantly yearn to feel accepted, be part of a family. I crave connection and intimacy. These feelings have led me to try to hold on to people too fiercely, fall in love too quickly, fear change too intensely. At times, it has driven people away. I learned to push my emotions so deep down, I couldn’t even feel them anymore. I thought this was being strong, and I was proud of my control. The only problem was, it didn’t work. I became more and more stressed, then pushed harder and harder, until it all came crashing down and I had to, for the first time in my life, actually listen to my feelings. This is also the universe trying to know itself; there is nothing less perfect about your real, authentic self, no matter your expectations. You can just let go. You can even let go of the shame of not being able to let go. Don’t let this be another way to judge yourself. The loneliness and fear and insecurity are still here with me – and always will be. And they are also part of the lesson the universe is trying to learn through my tiny life. The universe doesn’t care about the definitions, limitations, and expectations you’ve put on yourself. You are part of it just by existing. And so is everyone around you, as well as everything around you – every bird and flower, and rock and wave. GUNATILLAKE: You can just let go. It's not always easy, but you can just let go. THALLER: There is another amazing secret that even today, scientists are teasing out of the universe. For more than 100 years now, going back to the work of Albert Einstein, we have begun to understand that time is not a progression, not a river that runs in one direction. Instead, time is a landscape, much like space. From the right perspective (and yes, unfortunately one that three-dimensional creatures like us can’t see), all of time would be laid out before you, every instant that has ever existed or will ever exist. There's really nothing more real about this moment right now than moments that are billions of years in the future or millions of years in what we think of as the past. Not only am I made of life and death, but I am, individually, all those things at once. The earth has not formed yet. The sun has died and all the stars gone dark for uncountable trillions of years. Now. I think of that when contemplating love and loss; it helps me, honestly just a little, but it does help me, to deal with the fear and loneliness that are as much a part of my life as breath. I've said to my husband, "When the universe began, I was holding your hand, and when the universe ends, I'll be holding your hand." And we actually believe that to be literally true. GUNATILLAKE: The nighttime sky has long been a source of awe and wonder. There’s something about looking up and connecting with that vast expanse above that dilutes and reframes whatever issues we’re dealing with at the time. Michelle put it beautifully: the universe isn’t moved by whatever limitations we put upon ourselves. We are a part of it all the same. Held in its vastness. Part of that vastness. Made of it even. So with your permission, let me guide you through a meditation flowing from that theme. If it’s safe and comfortable to close your eyes, then please do so. And if you can’t right now, that’s totally fine, the practice will still work for you, but you might want to try it again at a time when you can be still with eyes closed. That might be fun. Ok. Relaxing your body. Relaxing your mind. Letting your eyelids rest softly closed, if that’s ok. Your face, your hands, your belly relaxed. And as you relax, let your attention settle on the inner cinema screen of your mind, the screen of your imagination. Begin by picturing yourself in the space that you’re in. Just as it is. Imagine the setting, the layout. And feel yourself really inhabiting that place. Now allow the picture to expand to include your city. Perhaps as one of those top-down aerial shots. See how much space you take up in this view, how much smaller you are. Now expand your imagination even further, to the region you’re in, and then to the country. Notice where you are in this picture. Now we’re going to allow the aerial shot to go all the way into space. Imagine seeing the Earth from the moon. See where you are on the planet. Notice how vast the earth is. The oceans, the land masses, the weather systems. Now expand even further out, moving away from the sun. Past Mars, Jupiter, past Saturn and its rings. The sun shrinking and the Earth – where we are – starting to vanish from sight entirely. Now allow your minds eye to move out even further, all the way to the point where you're taking in the whole of the Milky Way galaxy. How much space do you take up at this scale? What does this vantage point bring up for you? Awe? Fear? Confusion? Wonder? During this whole thought experiment, every single thing you’ve imagined has been in your mind. You didn't physically travel out to the edge of space. You imagined your way through a series of complex thoughts. So, notice that as you sit, stand or lie here, not only are thoughts arising in your awareness, but so is every other aspect of your experience: sights, sounds, smells, taste. The sensations of your body. They all wash through your experience. Sensations which arise, stick around for a while and then move on. Notice how not a single thing arises outside of your experience. All of this is happening in your awareness. Furthermore, it's the only experience you've ever known. Can you think of anything that you've ever known which you didn't know through your direct experience? From this vantage point, every single thing you’ve thought, felt, or known has arisen within this human experience of ours. Anything you can imagine as being outside of it, including the vast magnitudes of space, arises as a thought within this experience. We are the universe knowing itself. We are made of stars. So if it helps to remember that when faced with something which closes down our sense of wonder, which contracts us, then my invitation would be to do so. And I’m sure that Michelle would agree.
Michelle Thaller
CONNECTION
As an astronomer and science communicator, Michelle Thaller thinks deeply about our place in the universe. In her Meditative Story, she explores the significance of a single human — you — in a universe so immense that your very existence is of no consequence ... yet of every consequence.
CONNECTION
Life and love and the moment
MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
From the closing meditation
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MICHELLE THALLER: Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I’ve always loved looking up at a clear night sky full of stars, space, and questions. And few people know what’s up there better than astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller. In today’s episode, Michelle takes us up to the heavens, to consider our significance and connectedness in a universe whose scale means that human life is almost imperceptible. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. From time to time, you’ll hear me come in with a brief prompt. Some may help you settle in more deeply. Others, perhaps not so much. Either way, just stay inside the story. That’s all you need to do to feel its effect. Before we hear from Michelle, let’s take just a little time to settle. If you can see the sky, look up at it. If you can’t – and it’s safe to do so – just look up at the space above you. And feel the sensations of your feet on the ground at the same time. Aware of the space around you. And at the same time grounded, connected to the earth. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. THALLER: For nearly my entire life, I have felt lonely. I have no memory of when this started – and now I have no idea what it would be like to experience a single moment of my life without it. I constantly struggle with feelings of isolation from other people, from myself, from life. But for as long as I can remember, there’s one place I don’t feel lonely: under a clear, star-filled sky. I have no idea why this should be the case; honestly, it makes no sense at all. My mother told me that she used to find me, barely able to walk, trying to go outside and look at the stars. They’ve always felt like old friends, and they make me feel safe. Now I’m a professional astronomer, but that emotional response has never changed. Even now, when I’ve spent decades learning the physics of the hot gases in their interiors, doing the math to calculate their orbits, I still go outside just to look at them with my own eyes. I need to. I need to spend time with my friends. I felt this way even before I knew what the stars were, and now that I know much more about them, it turns out that my instincts were deeply, almost strangely, correct. I think most of us have some idea that astronomers are people who live with things much larger than themselves. Stars are huge almost unimaginably so, and the distances to them intractable. And that’s the smallest end of the astronomical scale. Galaxies are larger still, monsters too vast to comprehend; elegant rotating disks of hundreds of billions of stars, uncountable trillions of miles across. Scales of time are everywhere around you too. We study the lives of the stars, although a human lifespan to them is like a tiny two-winged midge that is born, breeds, and dies in a day. Some stars live only a few million years – a fast, intense life in stellar terms – while others will live longer than time has yet existed. But stars honor a lifecycle like everything in the universe: they are born, live, and die. And we are a consequence of this cycle. I would not be standing here, looking up at the sky, had not generations of stars lived and died to bring me here, to this moment. This is an incredible thing to know, and it remains my favorite single fact. At the beginning of the universe, only the very simplest atoms existed. Nowhere, in the entirety of space, was there a single bit of the stuff that makes you into the being that you are; no oxygen, carbon, calcium. Deep in the core of stars, simple atoms are fused together into larger, more complex ones. The largest ones are not easy to make; they take the death of a star. The actual moment of death for a giant star is one of the few things in the sky that actually happens quickly, to a human sensibility: they explode violently in what we call a supernova explosion. It’s in this explosion that all the larger atoms of the universe are created. Every atom of iron, from the metal in your cooking pans to the tiny mineral reserves in your blood that turn it red, is formed from these moments of death; entire solar systems ripping themselves apart in an instant. An Instant. And you can see these, all over the sky, on a dark night in California. Perched in the hills on the outskirts of San Diego, the Mount Palomar telescope is a grand relic from the middle of the last century. Its mirror first saw light in 1948, and is one of the greatest accomplishments of humankind. The 200 inch Hale Telescope on Mount Palomar is the most beautiful piece of technology ever built. Unlike today’s telescopes, which are certainly more powerful, the Hale is breathtakingly elegant. The classically-proportioned dome is large enough to cast the central behemoth into shadow, and the telescope itself is long enough to make it feel that you’re actually sighting the stars. It’s an example of lost technology, not unlike the Pyramids or Stonehenge. Every single time I go to Mount Palomar as an astronomer, I feel a wonderful, dissonant feeling of being in a sacred temple, and being a joyous, disbelieving child erroneously left alone among treasure by careless adults. I can never believe I’m allowed to enter that space. Even the path to Palomar feels like a journey away from the mundane world. Switchback roads that never fail to disorient me and make me a little seasick, a desert that gives way to tall trees and far vistas around each turn. The smell of pine and dust on the way up. Then I open the doors of the observatory and I’m greeted by the scent of marble hallways and the mellow old grease that coats the vast gears under the floor that have turned the telescope to track the stars for 70 years. I set up my experiment for the night, which requires the giant eye to stare at the same tiny part of the sky for many hours, and I settle in for a long night. GUNATILLAKE: How settled do you feel right now? As settled as Michelle, ready for her long night observing the heavens? Or do you have a sliver of impatience, the mind restless to move onto what's next? Note it and come back to your breath. THALLER: With some time to spare, I go outside to walk around the dome, scan the sky for any approaching weather, and honestly, just enjoy the moment with the unaltered night sky. No telescopes, small or giant, needed. My old friends are a comfort to my warm, living eyes. I wander over to check in with astronomers working in a nearby building that houses another old telescope that’s been repurposed for modern research – in this case, it scans the skies looking for the brief blasts of light that indicate a massive star has died, exploded in a supernova. I ask the woman working that night how many supernovas she’s found so far. “A dozen tonight,” she tells me. I walk back through the woods and look back up at the sky, I feel unequal to the task of even trying to understand what that means. In one evening, a dozen star systems, complete with any planets or life around them, came to a violent and sudden end, blown to bits. A dozen. In a few hours. This goes on around us every night, every day, every hour. And from the debris of that death comes every thing, literally every atom, we need for life. Spreading their nuclear-furnaced debris back into space, the galaxy now has more of the stuff of life to work with. I wouldn’t be here tonight had many millions of stars not died before. Some atoms in my body were formed, literally, a hundred thousand trillion miles away from where I sit tonight. I am vast. Me. And I am alive. And I’m soaked to the core of my existence in death; unimaginably vast death. Birth and death bonded together cheek to jowl, so tightly that one leaks into the other, across a galaxy. That is what I am. That is what you are. The story of the universe doesn't care if you think you’re worthy or not, if you wish to embrace this truth or reject it. There is no possible way for the universe to judge you; none of our human-made barriers or classifications exist. GUNATILLAKE: We spend so much of our lives, within the containers of labels and classifications. Labels put there by others, or by ourselves. What might it be like to not be judged at all? How freeing would it be? THALLER: Often, I feel overwhelmed with even my small, limited perception of the larger universe and my deep connection to it. Sometimes, I honestly can only deal with it by letting go. At this scale, so large and so small, there are no expectations. Everything can drop away. Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. What expectations have you put on yourself, your life, others, other lives? I spent the last few decades of my life pushing so hard. I constantly feel inadequate, not smart enough, not hard-working enough, just plain wrong. I constantly yearn to feel accepted, be part of a family. I crave connection and intimacy. These feelings have led me to try to hold on to people too fiercely, fall in love too quickly, fear change too intensely. At times, it has driven people away. I learned to push my emotions so deep down, I couldn’t even feel them anymore. I thought this was being strong, and I was proud of my control. The only problem was, it didn’t work. I became more and more stressed, then pushed harder and harder, until it all came crashing down and I had to, for the first time in my life, actually listen to my feelings. This is also the universe trying to know itself; there is nothing less perfect about your real, authentic self, no matter your expectations. You can just let go. You can even let go of the shame of not being able to let go. Don’t let this be another way to judge yourself. The loneliness and fear and insecurity are still here with me – and always will be. And they are also part of the lesson the universe is trying to learn through my tiny life. The universe doesn’t care about the definitions, limitations, and expectations you’ve put on yourself. You are part of it just by existing. And so is everyone around you, as well as everything around you – every bird and flower, and rock and wave. GUNATILLAKE: You can just let go. It's not always easy, but you can just let go. THALLER: There is another amazing secret that even today, scientists are teasing out of the universe. For more than 100 years now, going back to the work of Albert Einstein, we have begun to understand that time is not a progression, not a river that runs in one direction. Instead, time is a landscape, much like space. From the right perspective (and yes, unfortunately one that three-dimensional creatures like us can’t see), all of time would be laid out before you, every instant that has ever existed or will ever exist. There's really nothing more real about this moment right now than moments that are billions of years in the future or millions of years in what we think of as the past. Not only am I made of life and death, but I am, individually, all those things at once. The earth has not formed yet. The sun has died and all the stars gone dark for uncountable trillions of years. Now. I think of that when contemplating love and loss; it helps me, honestly just a little, but it does help me, to deal with the fear and loneliness that are as much a part of my life as breath. I've said to my husband, "When the universe began, I was holding your hand, and when the universe ends, I'll be holding your hand." And we actually believe that to be literally true. GUNATILLAKE: The nighttime sky has long been a source of awe and wonder. There’s something about looking up and connecting with that vast expanse above that dilutes and reframes whatever issues we’re dealing with at the time. Michelle put it beautifully: the universe isn’t moved by whatever limitations we put upon ourselves. We are a part of it all the same. Held in its vastness. Part of that vastness. Made of it even. So with your permission, let me guide you through a meditation flowing from that theme. If it’s safe and comfortable to close your eyes, then please do so. And if you can’t right now, that’s totally fine, the practice will still work for you, but you might want to try it again at a time when you can be still with eyes closed. That might be fun. Ok. Relaxing your body. Relaxing your mind. Letting your eyelids rest softly closed, if that’s ok. Your face, your hands, your belly relaxed. And as you relax, let your attention settle on the inner cinema screen of your mind, the screen of your imagination. Begin by picturing yourself in the space that you’re in. Just as it is. Imagine the setting, the layout. And feel yourself really inhabiting that place. Now allow the picture to expand to include your city. Perhaps as one of those top-down aerial shots. See how much space you take up in this view, how much smaller you are. Now expand your imagination even further, to the region you’re in, and then to the country. Notice where you are in this picture. Now we’re going to allow the aerial shot to go all the way into space. Imagine seeing the Earth from the moon. See where you are on the planet. Notice how vast the earth is. The oceans, the land masses, the weather systems. Now expand even further out, moving away from the sun. Past Mars, Jupiter, past Saturn and its rings. The sun shrinking and the Earth – where we are – starting to vanish from sight entirely. Now allow your minds eye to move out even further, all the way to the point where you're taking in the whole of the Milky Way galaxy. How much space do you take up at this scale? What does this vantage point bring up for you? Awe? Fear? Confusion? Wonder? During this whole thought experiment, every single thing you’ve imagined has been in your mind. You didn't physically travel out to the edge of space. You imagined your way through a series of complex thoughts. So, notice that as you sit, stand or lie here, not only are thoughts arising in your awareness, but so is every other aspect of your experience: sights, sounds, smells, taste. The sensations of your body. They all wash through your experience. Sensations which arise, stick around for a while and then move on. Notice how not a single thing arises outside of your experience. All of this is happening in your awareness. Furthermore, it's the only experience you've ever known. Can you think of anything that you've ever known which you didn't know through your direct experience? From this vantage point, every single thing you’ve thought, felt, or known has arisen within this human experience of ours. Anything you can imagine as being outside of it, including the vast magnitudes of space, arises as a thought within this experience. We are the universe knowing itself. We are made of stars. So if it helps to remember that when faced with something which closes down our sense of wonder, which contracts us, then my invitation would be to do so. And I’m sure that Michelle would agree.
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Michelle Thaller
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Episode Transcript
“There’s so much to love about Lucy’s story. So much to be moved by. And the aspect that strikes me most, is that it’s not a story about her husband Paul and his not being there, it’s a story about their daughter Cady and how she is. Her instinct to be with whatever shows up and enjoy thefreedom of life without the constriction of assumptions and norms. Running free with her balloon through the cemetery. And her wisdom to discern betweenwhat it is to be dead, and what it is to be alive. ”
Arianna Huffington
From the closing meditation
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
CONNECTION
About Michelle Thaller
PRESENCE
PRESENCE
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Dan Harris
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Dan Harris is the co-anchor of ABC News' Nightline and the weekend edition of Good Morning America. He also files reports for World News with Diane Sawyer, Good Morning America, ABC News Digital and ABC News Radio. Harris has covered many of the biggest stories in recent years, including natural disasters from Haiti to Myanmar to New Orleans, and combat in Afghanistan, Israel, Gaza, Iraq and the West Bank. He has embedded with an isolated Amazon Indian tribe, questioned drug lords in the slums of Rio, and confronted the head of Philip Morris International over the sale of cigarettes to Indonesian minors. He's won an Edward R. Murrow Award and, in 2009, an Emmy for his Nightline report, "How to Buy a Child in Ten Hours." His 2014 book, "10% Happier: How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Really Works — a True Story," was a New York Times Bestseller.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Arianna Huffington
Episode Transcript
DAN'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
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Arianna Huffington
Building a bond with my son
As an astronomer and science communicator, Michelle Thaller thinks deeply about our place in the universe. In her Meditative Story, she explores the significance of a single human — you — in a universe so immense that your very existence is of no consequence ... yet of every consequence.
Building a bond with my son
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
WONDER
Episode Transcript
About Dan Harris
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Renowned astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller shares a story about cosmic awe and deep connection — both to our fellow human beings and to the universe around us.
As a TV news anchor, Dan Harris works very odd hours. But that meant he was missing out on his young son's daily routines, and he worried they were growing apart. In this quiet, personal story, he shares how he learned to savor their time together.
"Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here?"
MICHELLE THALLER: Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I’ve always loved looking up at a clear night sky full of stars, space, and questions. And few people know what’s up there better than astronomer and science commentator Michelle Thaller. In today’s episode, Michelle takes us up to the heavens, to consider our significance and connectedness in a universe whose scale means that human life is almost imperceptible. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any time of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. From time to time, you’ll hear me come in with a brief prompt. Some may help you settle in more deeply. Others, perhaps not so much. Either way, just stay inside the story. That’s all you need to do to feel its effect. Before we hear from Michelle, let’s take just a little time to settle. If you can see the sky, look up at it. If you can’t – and it’s safe to do so – just look up at the space above you. And feel the sensations of your feet on the ground at the same time. Aware of the space around you. And at the same time grounded, connected to the earth. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. THALLER: For nearly my entire life, I have felt lonely. I have no memory of when this started – and now I have no idea what it would be like to experience a single moment of my life without it. I constantly struggle with feelings of isolation from other people, from myself, from life. But for as long as I can remember, there’s one place I don’t feel lonely: under a clear, star-filled sky. I have no idea why this should be the case; honestly, it makes no sense at all. My mother told me that she used to find me, barely able to walk, trying to go outside and look at the stars. They’ve always felt like old friends, and they make me feel safe. Now I’m a professional astronomer, but that emotional response has never changed. Even now, when I’ve spent decades learning the physics of the hot gases in their interiors, doing the math to calculate their orbits, I still go outside just to look at them with my own eyes. I need to. I need to spend time with my friends. I felt this way even before I knew what the stars were, and now that I know much more about them, it turns out that my instincts were deeply, almost strangely, correct. I think most of us have some idea that astronomers are people who live with things much larger than themselves. Stars are huge almost unimaginably so, and the distances to them intractable. And that’s the smallest end of the astronomical scale. Galaxies are larger still, monsters too vast to comprehend; elegant rotating disks of hundreds of billions of stars, uncountable trillions of miles across. Scales of time are everywhere around you too. We study the lives of the stars, although a human lifespan to them is like a tiny two-winged midge that is born, breeds, and dies in a day. Some stars live only a few million years – a fast, intense life in stellar terms – while others will live longer than time has yet existed. But stars honor a lifecycle like everything in the universe: they are born, live, and die. And we are a consequence of this cycle. I would not be standing here, looking up at the sky, had not generations of stars lived and died to bring me here, to this moment. This is an incredible thing to know, and it remains my favorite single fact. At the beginning of the universe, only the very simplest atoms existed. Nowhere, in the entirety of space, was there a single bit of the stuff that makes you into the being that you are; no oxygen, carbon, calcium. Deep in the core of stars, simple atoms are fused together into larger, more complex ones. The largest ones are not easy to make; they take the death of a star. The actual moment of death for a giant star is one of the few things in the sky that actually happens quickly, to a human sensibility: they explode violently in what we call a supernova explosion. It’s in this explosion that all the larger atoms of the universe are created. Every atom of iron, from the metal in your cooking pans to the tiny mineral reserves in your blood that turn it red, is formed from these moments of death; entire solar systems ripping themselves apart in an instant. An Instant. And you can see these, all over the sky, on a dark night in California. Perched in the hills on the outskirts of San Diego, the Mount Palomar telescope is a grand relic from the middle of the last century. Its mirror first saw light in 1948, and is one of the greatest accomplishments of humankind. The 200 inch Hale Telescope on Mount Palomar is the most beautiful piece of technology ever built. Unlike today’s telescopes, which are certainly more powerful, the Hale is breathtakingly elegant. The classically-proportioned dome is large enough to cast the central behemoth into shadow, and the telescope itself is long enough to make it feel that you’re actually sighting the stars. It’s an example of lost technology, not unlike the Pyramids or Stonehenge. Every single time I go to Mount Palomar as an astronomer, I feel a wonderful, dissonant feeling of being in a sacred temple, and being a joyous, disbelieving child erroneously left alone among treasure by careless adults. I can never believe I’m allowed to enter that space. Even the path to Palomar feels like a journey away from the mundane world. Switchback roads that never fail to disorient me and make me a little seasick, a desert that gives way to tall trees and far vistas around each turn. The smell of pine and dust on the way up. Then I open the doors of the observatory and I’m greeted by the scent of marble hallways and the mellow old grease that coats the vast gears under the floor that have turned the telescope to track the stars for 70 years. I set up my experiment for the night, which requires the giant eye to stare at the same tiny part of the sky for many hours, and I settle in for a long night. GUNATILLAKE: How settled do you feel right now? As settled as Michelle, ready for her long night observing the heavens? Or do you have a sliver of impatience, the mind restless to move onto what's next? Note it and come back to your breath. THALLER: With some time to spare, I go outside to walk around the dome, scan the sky for any approaching weather, and honestly, just enjoy the moment with the unaltered night sky. No telescopes, small or giant, needed. My old friends are a comfort to my warm, living eyes. I wander over to check in with astronomers working in a nearby building that houses another old telescope that’s been repurposed for modern research – in this case, it scans the skies looking for the brief blasts of light that indicate a massive star has died, exploded in a supernova. I ask the woman working that night how many supernovas she’s found so far. “A dozen tonight,” she tells me. I walk back through the woods and look back up at the sky, I feel unequal to the task of even trying to understand what that means. In one evening, a dozen star systems, complete with any planets or life around them, came to a violent and sudden end, blown to bits. A dozen. In a few hours. This goes on around us every night, every day, every hour. And from the debris of that death comes every thing, literally every atom, we need for life. Spreading their nuclear-furnaced debris back into space, the galaxy now has more of the stuff of life to work with. I wouldn’t be here tonight had many millions of stars not died before. Some atoms in my body were formed, literally, a hundred thousand trillion miles away from where I sit tonight. I am vast. Me. And I am alive. And I’m soaked to the core of my existence in death; unimaginably vast death. Birth and death bonded together cheek to jowl, so tightly that one leaks into the other, across a galaxy. That is what I am. That is what you are. The story of the universe doesn't care if you think you’re worthy or not, if you wish to embrace this truth or reject it. There is no possible way for the universe to judge you; none of our human-made barriers or classifications exist. GUNATILLAKE: We spend so much of our lives, within the containers of labels and classifications. Labels put there by others, or by ourselves. What might it be like to not be judged at all? How freeing would it be? THALLER: Often, I feel overwhelmed with even my small, limited perception of the larger universe and my deep connection to it. Sometimes, I honestly can only deal with it by letting go. At this scale, so large and so small, there are no expectations. Everything can drop away. Everything about you has been here for the entirety of time, and everything that you are will utterly vanish in the blink of an eye. This is what you are; there is nothing to do about it. To be so significant and yet so insignificant all at once is the essence and the balance of what it means to be alive. What expectations have you put on yourself, your life, others, other lives? I spent the last few decades of my life pushing so hard. I constantly feel inadequate, not smart enough, not hard-working enough, just plain wrong. I constantly yearn to feel accepted, be part of a family. I crave connection and intimacy. These feelings have led me to try to hold on to people too fiercely, fall in love too quickly, fear change too intensely. At times, it has driven people away. I learned to push my emotions so deep down, I couldn’t even feel them anymore. I thought this was being strong, and I was proud of my control. The only problem was, it didn’t work. I became more and more stressed, then pushed harder and harder, until it all came crashing down and I had to, for the first time in my life, actually listen to my feelings. This is also the universe trying to know itself; there is nothing less perfect about your real, authentic self, no matter your expectations. You can just let go. You can even let go of the shame of not being able to let go. Don’t let this be another way to judge yourself. The loneliness and fear and insecurity are still here with me – and always will be. And they are also part of the lesson the universe is trying to learn through my tiny life. The universe doesn’t care about the definitions, limitations, and expectations you’ve put on yourself. You are part of it just by existing. And so is everyone around you, as well as everything around you – every bird and flower, and rock and wave. GUNATILLAKE: You can just let go. It's not always easy, but you can just let go. THALLER: There is another amazing secret that even today, scientists are teasing out of the universe. For more than 100 years now, going back to the work of Albert Einstein, we have begun to understand that time is not a progression, not a river that runs in one direction. Instead, time is a landscape, much like space. From the right perspective (and yes, unfortunately one that three-dimensional creatures like us can’t see), all of time would be laid out before you, every instant that has ever existed or will ever exist. There's really nothing more real about this moment right now than moments that are billions of years in the future or millions of years in what we think of as the past. Not only am I made of life and death, but I am, individually, all those things at once. The earth has not formed yet. The sun has died and all the stars gone dark for uncountable trillions of years. Now. I think of that when contemplating love and loss; it helps me, honestly just a little, but it does help me, to deal with the fear and loneliness that are as much a part of my life as breath. I've said to my husband, "When the universe began, I was holding your hand, and when the universe ends, I'll be holding your hand." And we actually believe that to be literally true. GUNATILLAKE: The nighttime sky has long been a source of awe and wonder. There’s something about looking up and connecting with that vast expanse above that dilutes and reframes whatever issues we’re dealing with at the time. Michelle put it beautifully: the universe isn’t moved by whatever limitations we put upon ourselves. We are a part of it all the same. Held in its vastness. Part of that vastness. Made of it even. So with your permission, let me guide you through a meditation flowing from that theme. If it’s safe and comfortable to close your eyes, then please do so. And if you can’t right now, that’s totally fine, the practice will still work for you, but you might want to try it again at a time when you can be still with eyes closed. That might be fun. Ok. Relaxing your body. Relaxing your mind. Letting your eyelids rest softly closed, if that’s ok. Your face, your hands, your belly relaxed. And as you relax, let your attention settle on the inner cinema screen of your mind, the screen of your imagination. Begin by picturing yourself in the space that you’re in. Just as it is. Imagine the setting, the layout. And feel yourself really inhabiting that place. Now allow the picture to expand to include your city. Perhaps as one of those top-down aerial shots. See how much space you take up in this view, how much smaller you are. Now expand your imagination even further, to the region you’re in, and then to the country. Notice where you are in this picture. Now we’re going to allow the aerial shot to go all the way into space. Imagine seeing the Earth from the moon. See where you are on the planet. Notice how vast the earth is. The oceans, the land masses, the weather systems. Now expand even further out, moving away from the sun. Past Mars, Jupiter, past Saturn and its rings. The sun shrinking and the Earth – where we are – starting to vanish from sight entirely. Now allow your minds eye to move out even further, all the way to the point where you're taking in the whole of the Milky Way galaxy. How much space do you take up at this scale? What does this vantage point bring up for you? Awe? Fear? Confusion? Wonder? During this whole thought experiment, every single thing you’ve imagined has been in your mind. You didn't physically travel out to the edge of space. You imagined your way through a series of complex thoughts. So, notice that as you sit, stand or lie here, not only are thoughts arising in your awareness, but so is every other aspect of your experience: sights, sounds, smells, taste. The sensations of your body. They all wash through your experience. Sensations which arise, stick around for a while and then move on. Notice how not a single thing arises outside of your experience. All of this is happening in your awareness. Furthermore, it's the only experience you've ever known. Can you think of anything that you've ever known which you didn't know through your direct experience? From this vantage point, every single thing you’ve thought, felt, or known has arisen within this human experience of ours. Anything you can imagine as being outside of it, including the vast magnitudes of space, arises as a thought within this experience. We are the universe knowing itself. We are made of stars. So if it helps to remember that when faced with something which closes down our sense of wonder, which contracts us, then my invitation would be to do so. And I’m sure that Michelle would agree.
About Dan Harris
From the closing meditation
Life and love and the moment
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MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
OPENNESS
DAN HARRIS
Life and love and the moment
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
OPENNESS
MICHELLE THALLER
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Dr. Michelle Thaller is the Assistant Director of Science at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. She has a bachelor’s in astrophysics from Harvard and a Ph.D. from Georgia State University. After a post-doctoral research fellowship at Caltech, she became particularly interested in public outreach and science communication, and served as the public outreach lead for the Spitzer Space Telescope at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. She has also worked at NASA Headquarters in Washington, DC, on strategic communications for all of NASA. Outside of her work, Michelle is one of the regular hosts of Discovery Science Channel’s “How the Universe Works” and "Space's Deepest Secrets." Michelle hosted the podcast “Orbital Path” for PRX, and appears on Big Think. She has received several high-profile awards for online science journalism and science leadership.
Dan Harris is the co-anchor of ABC News' Nightline and the weekend edition of Good Morning America. He also files reports for World News with Diane Sawyer, Good Morning America, ABC News Digital and ABC News Radio. Harris has covered many of the biggest stories in recent years, including natural disasters from Haiti to Myanmar to New Orleans, and combat in Afghanistan, Israel, Gaza, Iraq and the West Bank. He has embedded with an isolated Amazon Indian tribe, questioned drug lords in the slums of Rio, and confronted the head of Philip Morris International over the sale of cigarettes to Indonesian minors. He's won an Edward R. Murrow Award and, in 2009, an Emmy for his Nightline report, "How to Buy a Child in Ten Hours." His 2014 book, "10% Happier: How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Really Works — a True Story," was a New York Times Bestseller.
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"Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here?"
DAN HARRIS: When Bianca and I first had Alexander, I remember there being a whole tsunami of sentiment, both over email from my friends and on social media from people I didn’t know, where we were being told and exhorted to “enjoy every moment” or “cherish every moment.” And I always wondered about that: Is this just a kind of perfunctory thing that people say or is it maybe based in some sort of remorse that they may feel about having let their kid’s childhood slip by without really taking it all in while it was happening? ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Parenting is a rollercoaster. Steep climbs. Full on free falls. Sharp turns. One moment you’re filled with doubt and worry. The next joy and delight. It just is this way. Today’s storyteller, Dan Harris is a broadcaster and journalist, and the creator of the “10% Happier” meditation app and podcast. In the story he’s about to tell, Dan shares a candid look into his attempts to connect more with his son Alexander. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here? As I speak this, I’m standing in a recording studio in Glasgow. To help me be as present as possible for you, I’m feeling my feet on the ground. I’m aware of the temperature of the air on my skin. I know the movement in my face as I speak. What is it for you? What can you do right now to help you be as present and as grounded as possible? Relaxing the body. Letting the body breathe. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. HARRIS: So things have been pretty oedipal around my house for a while. My son Alexander is four and he's all about his mommy right now. Their bond is beautiful and tight – but that sometimes means it’s really hard for me to break in. Because of the nature of our respective schedules, my wife, Bianca, spends more time with Alexander. I work very funny hours. I’m employed at ABC News where I anchor “Good Morning America” on the weekends, which means I'm up at 3:45 in the morning and – once I’ve stretched, showered, and meditated – I sneak out of the apartment as quietly as possible, so as to not wake Alexander and Bianca, and then take a quick car ride through the dark and often utterly silent city streets to the office. Those are my weekend mornings. And then during the week, I’m one of the co-anchors of “Nightline”, which means for several nights I stay up really late to anchor that show. Bianca is a highly trained physician but she’s not working right now. She had breast cancer a few years ago and she’s been taking a little time off. Thankfully she's fine, but this situation does means she spends a lot more time with Alexander than I do. Typically, in the morning on weekdays, I walk out into the living room, disheveled, an hour into Alexander's playtime with his mom before he heads off to school. Sometimes I’ll catch them right in the middle of the often difficult routine of getting him ready for school. He's in preschool right now. Often Alexander thoroughly rejects me. He won't look at me, he won't even say hello. And if I go over to him, he whines or he calls for his mommy and runs away. This, as you might imagine, does not feel awesome first thing in the morning. The person I love the most in the world totally rejecting me. When I can get him to explain why, he’ll tell me that he doesn't like that I have "crazy hair" or that I smell. It feeds my overall sense of guilt that I’m not spending enough time with him. There are times where these interactions can make me sad or resentful, but on good mornings, if I go out into the living room and I sit quietly long enough, he will actually come over to me on his own. And on bad morn ings, all I get is him reluctantly deigning to allow me to kiss him on the forehead. I’m not a big one for metaphysical claims but Alexander is something of a miracle. We were told, Bianca and I, that it was a long shot that we would ever have a child. We went through IVF twice, in vitro fertilization. And on the second round, which we already knew was almost certainly going to be our last round, we got one egg. Everybody who goes through IVF is, of course, having fertility issues, but still, many of these people get 8 to 12 eggs. So again, we got one. And they implanted it, and we now have this giant, blonde kid running around the house as a result. This is a huge deal for us to have a kid. And I really, really love him. And I do feel guilt about the fact that I'm not around as much as I would like to be. I do my best at this. We deliberately found an apartment that's seven blocks from my office so I'm able to pop in and out and see him during the day. And it's also close to his school, so I do go pick him up when I can. Those school pick-ups are actually quite magical. He’s often surprised and delighted to see me, and will run right over and give me a hug. Another thing I try to do is to organize regular father son dates, because I’ve found that when it’s just the two of us, he is much much nicer to me. So it's not like I never see him, but I would love to see him more. I miss a lot of dinners at home and mornings and stuff like that. One of my colleagues made a joke recently, he referred to my parenting style as “10 % around,” which was kind of a funny joke but it definitely stuck in my head. “Am I spending enough time with him?” And when I do see him, he's often so fixated on mommy that I’m persona non grata. GUNATILLAKE: If you were to rate how present you are right now, what percentage would you score yourself? Ten percent, 50%, more? It can be a fun thing to do from time to time – and no need to give yourself a hard time if your score isn't so high. Right now, what would it be to grow your presence by 10%? Come back to your breath. The feeling of the buds or headset over your ears. The sensations of this moment. HARRIS: So I decide, in consultation with my wife, to try to be a little bit more proactive and take Alexander on a father/son trip so that we can connect in a whole new way. I wonder what a change of scene will bring. I hesitate traveling with a then-three-year-old. I worry he’ll revolt at the idea of being away from mommy for a while. So I gingerly broach the subject with him. While he’s playing with his toys at the dining room table one night, I say, “What do you think little man? Do you want to go up to Boston? Do you want to go up to Boston and see your grandparents?” I grew up in Boston and my parents are still there. I ask him again, “Do you want to spend two nights just you and daddy?” And he says, “Yes.” I test him on this over the ensuing days, and he consistently says yes. So I put it on the books. I buy us plane tickets and book us a room. I tell my parents to clear time in their schedules. As the trip approaches, I’m increasingly concerned that he’s gonna have a full-on temper tantrum when I pick him up and try to get him in the cab to the airport. What if he doesn’t want to leave mommy? What if the entire trip is traumatic and awful for both of us? What if he won’t let me put him to bed? I used to put him to bed when he was a baby but ever since he's been able to speak, he’s had a whole problematic sleep career. He will not let me put him to bed. His mom can put him to bed, his nanny can put him to bed, but not me. In fact, one time I arranged a night where both his mother and his nanny were out of the house so I would be the only option. I remember he was sitting in the bath before bedtime, and after I’d finished shampooing him, it dawned on him that I was going to put him to bed. He started freaking out and whining in a way that suggested a full on bout of crying may be in the offing. One of the cats happened to walk through the bathroom at that time. And I asked Alexander, “Would you be okay with Ruby putting you to bed?” And he said, “Yes.” I asked him, “Why?” And he said, “Because she's a girl.” And so there I was, second fiddle to Ruby. GUNATILLAKE: Can you imagine being there, a fly on the wall? See Dan slumped, his son adamant, the cat nonchalant. HARRIS: We leave on a Sunday. I finish work, walk into our apartment, and he’s in a great mood, all dressed up, hair combed, and ready to go. I walk over to him and ask “Are you ready?” He answers in the affirmative, enthusiastically. So I change out of my suit and call a car. We head to the airport and I do my best to get him talking on the way, about all the fun things we’ll do in Boston. I put a heavy emphasis on ice cream. He’s in a really good mood. He looks out the window. He laughs and enjoys himself. Once we’re at the airport he’s a dream going through security. He insists though on riding on top of my roll-y suitcase. This is hard on my aging body, carrying this little beast on my suitcase through the airport all day, but we’re both having a really good time. We land in Boston and go to the hotel together. We head straight to the pool for a little bit after checking in, and then his grandparents show up and we eat dinner in our hotel room. It’s a great time. And then the hour arrives where I’m going to have to put him to bed. I do have a strategy though. There is no official bedtime, I tell him. Instead we head out into the long carpeted hallways where it is game time. I make him run wind sprints – in his PJs – for an indeterminate period. Occasionally, other guests walk out of their rooms, and see what Alexander and I are doing, and they laugh at us. If I’m able to get him tired enough, I’m thinking, then he’ll have no choice but to fall asleep. We have a whole set of games in the hallway where I run him up and down like a dog. He’s loving it, giggling and squealing as I chase him. I am clearly winning here. We head to bed to read some books. I don’t say anything about bedtime or going to sleep. We're just reading books here. And after just a few minutes, he crashes! I should say, this kid, generally, is not a great sleeper. He wakes up all the time and screams in the middle of the night. But not tonight. Not on the boys trip. GUNATILLAKE: With Alexander deeply asleep and Dan exhausted too no doubt, how are your energy levels? If you want to raise them a little, try straightening the spine, opening the chest, raising the chin, letting the body lead the mind. HARRIS: We spend the next day at Legoland. Me, Alexander, and his grandmother. Six hours. I am bored out of my mind, but he is having a great time – and it feels great just to watch him go. That night we have dinner at my parent's apartment. His uncle, my brother who just happens to be in Boston that night, joins us. It’s really sweet. Just my original, nuclear family, right here with my little son who’s being a really good kid. Eating his dinner: a bagel with an egg on it. He dances while he eats because that's what he does when he's happy. Everybody laughs and he says a lot of funny, cute things. The collective admiration and adoration of my family all focused on my little boy is really meaningful for me. After dinner we head back to our hotel room. He runs more wind sprints in the hallway and again, sleeps through the night. On our last day, we head to the New England Aquarium. We look at all the fish. Alexander’s attention span is limited, so we move very quickly from penguins to eels to sharks. He seems highly motivated to get me into the gift shop so he can get a treat. When we get back on the plane to head home Alexander is great. He looks out the window the whole time, clutching the new stuffed animal I got him. As somebody who’s been meditating for nearly a decade now, I’ve had many moments during this trip where I’m really glad to have the training because I’m able to just tune in to how, for lack of a less cheesy word, how sweet this experience is. I love this kid. Obviously, every parent loves their child. But especially given the fact that I'm an older dad, I’m 47, and given everything Bianca and I went through to get this kid, this whole situation is especially poignant. When Bianca and I first had Alexander, I remember there being a whole tsunami of sentiment, both over email from my friends and on social media from people I didn’t know, where we were being told and exhorted to enjoy every moment, or cherish every moment. And I always wondered about that. Is this just a kind of perfunctory thing that people say or is it maybe based in some sort of remorse that they may feel about having let their kid’s childhood slip by without really taking it all in while it was happening? One of the many things meditation is designed to do is to wake you up and to help you be right here wherever you happen to be. Throughout the course of my jaunt with my son, there are a lot of little snapshots in my mind of him looking out the window as the plane flew; or watching him look at the penguins in the Aquarium or fiddle with legos at Legoland; or dance around, bagel in hand, while my family laughs. And in all of these moments I was really able to do the opposite of zoning out, I was able to zone in. And in my experience, that really amplifies the awesomeness quotient immeasurably. The self awareness that I’ve been able to generate, that anybody can generate, through meditation allows me to notice and accentuate joy. And it can provoke what I consider to be healthy reflection about the fact, the inarguable fact, that these moments are fleeting, so it’s best not to waste them by reflexively reaching for my iPhone or something. GUNATILLAKE: In this world of distractions, our minds have become so well trained to jump from one thing to another. You might even feel that pull right now. If so, can you rest and acknowledge how Dan's story is making you feel. Letting any enjoyment or appreciation sink in. HARRIS: I should say that there are a few moments during our trip where Alexander says he misses mommy. It hurts my feelings a bit, but I just do a version of what we’re told to do during meditation. Rather than denying or trying to paper over that his feelings exist, I get him to tune in to himself. I ask him: “How does missing mommy make him feel? Sad?” And if he says yes, which he usually does, I say “It’s ok to feel sad, I get it. But we’re going to see her very soon. And in the meantime, we’re gonna have fun.” Generally speaking, this works like a charm. When we finally get home and ride the elevator up to our apartment, I prepare to tell his mother about what an amazing job Alexander did. Within minutes though, pretty much as soon as he’s around his mother again, he has a temper tantrum. Not at me, it’s directed quite squarely at her. This speaks, in my view, to the impenetrable bond he has with her and it actually makes me feel like this whole dynamic among the three of us is less about me and more about the fact that many children simply have intense relationships with their mothers. And you know what, I think it’s great that they have this bond. It’s now clear that there’s nothing for me to feel jealous or resentful about. Clearly, the move here, is just for me to make time for Alexander and I to interact one on one, so we can build our own relationship. And I think our boys trip really helped on that front. Interrupting the patterns, the grooves, in our everyday lives created new space for us to relate to one another differently. We’re building our own repertoire of private jokes and secret memories, mostly involving my allowing him to have more chocolate than mommy does. So I’ve decided that I'm going to do it again. We're already talking about going down to Florida together. I've also learned my lesson about the crazy hair in the mornings. Now, when I wake up, many days I put water in my hair so I look better for him. That has also helped. Oh, and the other day, he told me that he has now decided that daddy is, henceforth, allowed to put him to bed. So I’m finally on par with our cat Ruby. GUNATILLAKE: Parenting is hard. Given that my own eldest child, a boy, is pretty much the same age as Alexander, there’s a lot that I recognize in Dan’s story, the importance of stepping out of everyday routines in order to connect. But of all the themes, the one that stands out the most for me is the simple power of time spent together. When there’s disconnection, we solve it by connecting. Letting time and attention do their work. Attention and connection are in their own way the heart of meditation. So since you’re here, why not join me in a short meditation inspired by Dan’s story. It’ll be in two parts and we’ll start here, just as you are. Whatever position your body is in, if you’re moving or still, take a breath. Take two. Take as many as you want. If it’s been one of those days, why not sigh? Letting the sound drain away any tension that you might have been holding. And in this first part of the meditation, the idea is to just rest your attention with the body. No need to fixate on any area in particular, instead just resting, being aware of the body as a whole. Giving it your attention. Connecting. Letting the whole body, however it is, fill your awareness, soaking up your attention. As you do so, there will be flickers away from your connection with the body – times when particular sensations, thoughts, feelings come in and takeover. As with Dan, these might include doubt, judgement, boredom, worry, tiredness. It’s ok. Whenever you notice your connection with your overall sense of the body break, just come back and start again. Bringing the attention back. Reconnecting. Ok, now that you’re hopefully feeling a bit more grounded let’s move into the second part of the meditation. What I’d like you to do is to bring someone to mind that you wish you could spend more time with. For Dan it was his son. For me it’s my eldest sister. Who is it for you? There’s no right answer, but in my experience the first person you think of is probably the best person to go with. If you’re a visual person, you can picture an image of them. But if, like me, you don’t have too much of a visual mind, just recall something about them, an event, a feeling, a story, an image without pictures. Whatever helps bring them to mind, whatever helps bring them into your awareness. And this is where we’ll rest. Keeping your person in mind, spending time with the image of them. It might feel totally contrived, totally fake. That’s ok. It can be like that sometimes. Just do it anyway. Bringing to mind the person you wish you could spend more time with and keeping them in awareness as much as you can. As you do this, all sorts of thoughts may come up. Thoughts of regret, self-judgement, doubt. Thoughts of delight, happiness and joy as you feel touched by them. They’re all ok. We do the best we can, you know. Let this gentle attention towards your dear person forge a real sense of connection. They might be far away, they might be in the next room. You might have seen them just five minutes ago, or it could have been decades. It’s all ok. Your body relaxed. Your breathing gentle. Your special person in mind. Filling your mind. Feeling the charge between you. Trusting the quality of your wish to spend more time with them. Deepening your connection. Just as Dan did with Alexander.
Dan Harris
CONNECTION
As a TV news anchor, Dan Harris works very odd hours. But that meant he was missing out on his young son's daily routines, and he worried they were growing apart. In this quiet, personal story, he shares how he learned to savor their time together.
CONNECTION
Life and love and the moment
DAN'S MEDITATIVE STORY
From the closing meditation
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DAN HARRIS: When Bianca and I first had Alexander, I remember there being a whole tsunami of sentiment, both over email from my friends and on social media from people I didn’t know, where we were being told and exhorted to “enjoy every moment” or “cherish every moment.” And I always wondered about that: Is this just a kind of perfunctory thing that people say or is it maybe based in some sort of remorse that they may feel about having let their kid’s childhood slip by without really taking it all in while it was happening? ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Parenting is a rollercoaster. Steep climbs. Full on free falls. Sharp turns. One moment you’re filled with doubt and worry. The next joy and delight. It just is this way. Today’s storyteller, Dan Harris is a broadcaster and journalist, and the creator of the “10% Happier” meditation app and podcast. In the story he’s about to tell, Dan shares a candid look into his attempts to connect more with his son Alexander. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here? As I speak this, I’m standing in a recording studio in Glasgow. To help me be as present as possible for you, I’m feeling my feet on the ground. I’m aware of the temperature of the air on my skin. I know the movement in my face as I speak. What is it for you? What can you do right now to help you be as present and as grounded as possible? Relaxing the body. Letting the body breathe. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. HARRIS: So things have been pretty oedipal around my house for a while. My son Alexander is four and he's all about his mommy right now. Their bond is beautiful and tight – but that sometimes means it’s really hard for me to break in. Because of the nature of our respective schedules, my wife, Bianca, spends more time with Alexander. I work very funny hours. I’m employed at ABC News where I anchor “Good Morning America” on the weekends, which means I'm up at 3:45 in the morning and – once I’ve stretched, showered, and meditated – I sneak out of the apartment as quietly as possible, so as to not wake Alexander and Bianca, and then take a quick car ride through the dark and often utterly silent city streets to the office. Those are my weekend mornings. And then during the week, I’m one of the co-anchors of “Nightline”, which means for several nights I stay up really late to anchor that show. Bianca is a highly trained physician but she’s not working right now. She had breast cancer a few years ago and she’s been taking a little time off. Thankfully she's fine, but this situation does means she spends a lot more time with Alexander than I do. Typically, in the morning on weekdays, I walk out into the living room, disheveled, an hour into Alexander's playtime with his mom before he heads off to school. Sometimes I’ll catch them right in the middle of the often difficult routine of getting him ready for school. He's in preschool right now. Often Alexander thoroughly rejects me. He won't look at me, he won't even say hello. And if I go over to him, he whines or he calls for his mommy and runs away. This, as you might imagine, does not feel awesome first thing in the morning. The person I love the most in the world totally rejecting me. When I can get him to explain why, he’ll tell me that he doesn't like that I have "crazy hair" or that I smell. It feeds my overall sense of guilt that I’m not spending enough time with him. There are times where these interactions can make me sad or resentful, but on good mornings, if I go out into the living room and I sit quietly long enough, he will actually come over to me on his own. And on bad morn ings, all I get is him reluctantly deigning to allow me to kiss him on the forehead. I’m not a big one for metaphysical claims but Alexander is something of a miracle. We were told, Bianca and I, that it was a long shot that we would ever have a child. We went through IVF twice, in vitro fertilization. And on the second round, which we already knew was almost certainly going to be our last round, we got one egg. Everybody who goes through IVF is, of course, having fertility issues, but still, many of these people get 8 to 12 eggs. So again, we got one. And they implanted it, and we now have this giant, blonde kid running around the house as a result. This is a huge deal for us to have a kid. And I really, really love him. And I do feel guilt about the fact that I'm not around as much as I would like to be. I do my best at this. We deliberately found an apartment that's seven blocks from my office so I'm able to pop in and out and see him during the day. And it's also close to his school, so I do go pick him up when I can. Those school pick-ups are actually quite magical. He’s often surprised and delighted to see me, and will run right over and give me a hug. Another thing I try to do is to organize regular father son dates, because I’ve found that when it’s just the two of us, he is much much nicer to me. So it's not like I never see him, but I would love to see him more. I miss a lot of dinners at home and mornings and stuff like that. One of my colleagues made a joke recently, he referred to my parenting style as “10 % around,” which was kind of a funny joke but it definitely stuck in my head. “Am I spending enough time with him?” And when I do see him, he's often so fixated on mommy that I’m persona non grata. GUNATILLAKE: If you were to rate how present you are right now, what percentage would you score yourself? Ten percent, 50%, more? It can be a fun thing to do from time to time – and no need to give yourself a hard time if your score isn't so high. Right now, what would it be to grow your presence by 10%? Come back to your breath. The feeling of the buds or headset over your ears. The sensations of this moment. HARRIS: So I decide, in consultation with my wife, to try to be a little bit more proactive and take Alexander on a father/son trip so that we can connect in a whole new way. I wonder what a change of scene will bring. I hesitate traveling with a then-three-year-old. I worry he’ll revolt at the idea of being away from mommy for a while. So I gingerly broach the subject with him. While he’s playing with his toys at the dining room table one night, I say, “What do you think little man? Do you want to go up to Boston? Do you want to go up to Boston and see your grandparents?” I grew up in Boston and my parents are still there. I ask him again, “Do you want to spend two nights just you and daddy?” And he says, “Yes.” I test him on this over the ensuing days, and he consistently says yes. So I put it on the books. I buy us plane tickets and book us a room. I tell my parents to clear time in their schedules. As the trip approaches, I’m increasingly concerned that he’s gonna have a full-on temper tantrum when I pick him up and try to get him in the cab to the airport. What if he doesn’t want to leave mommy? What if the entire trip is traumatic and awful for both of us? What if he won’t let me put him to bed? I used to put him to bed when he was a baby but ever since he's been able to speak, he’s had a whole problematic sleep career. He will not let me put him to bed. His mom can put him to bed, his nanny can put him to bed, but not me. In fact, one time I arranged a night where both his mother and his nanny were out of the house so I would be the only option. I remember he was sitting in the bath before bedtime, and after I’d finished shampooing him, it dawned on him that I was going to put him to bed. He started freaking out and whining in a way that suggested a full on bout of crying may be in the offing. One of the cats happened to walk through the bathroom at that time. And I asked Alexander, “Would you be okay with Ruby putting you to bed?” And he said, “Yes.” I asked him, “Why?” And he said, “Because she's a girl.” And so there I was, second fiddle to Ruby. GUNATILLAKE: Can you imagine being there, a fly on the wall? See Dan slumped, his son adamant, the cat nonchalant. HARRIS: We leave on a Sunday. I finish work, walk into our apartment, and he’s in a great mood, all dressed up, hair combed, and ready to go. I walk over to him and ask “Are you ready?” He answers in the affirmative, enthusiastically. So I change out of my suit and call a car. We head to the airport and I do my best to get him talking on the way, about all the fun things we’ll do in Boston. I put a heavy emphasis on ice cream. He’s in a really good mood. He looks out the window. He laughs and enjoys himself. Once we’re at the airport he’s a dream going through security. He insists though on riding on top of my roll-y suitcase. This is hard on my aging body, carrying this little beast on my suitcase through the airport all day, but we’re both having a really good time. We land in Boston and go to the hotel together. We head straight to the pool for a little bit after checking in, and then his grandparents show up and we eat dinner in our hotel room. It’s a great time. And then the hour arrives where I’m going to have to put him to bed. I do have a strategy though. There is no official bedtime, I tell him. Instead we head out into the long carpeted hallways where it is game time. I make him run wind sprints – in his PJs – for an indeterminate period. Occasionally, other guests walk out of their rooms, and see what Alexander and I are doing, and they laugh at us. If I’m able to get him tired enough, I’m thinking, then he’ll have no choice but to fall asleep. We have a whole set of games in the hallway where I run him up and down like a dog. He’s loving it, giggling and squealing as I chase him. I am clearly winning here. We head to bed to read some books. I don’t say anything about bedtime or going to sleep. We're just reading books here. And after just a few minutes, he crashes! I should say, this kid, generally, is not a great sleeper. He wakes up all the time and screams in the middle of the night. But not tonight. Not on the boys trip. GUNATILLAKE: With Alexander deeply asleep and Dan exhausted too no doubt, how are your energy levels? If you want to raise them a little, try straightening the spine, opening the chest, raising the chin, letting the body lead the mind. HARRIS: We spend the next day at Legoland. Me, Alexander, and his grandmother. Six hours. I am bored out of my mind, but he is having a great time – and it feels great just to watch him go. That night we have dinner at my parent's apartment. His uncle, my brother who just happens to be in Boston that night, joins us. It’s really sweet. Just my original, nuclear family, right here with my little son who’s being a really good kid. Eating his dinner: a bagel with an egg on it. He dances while he eats because that's what he does when he's happy. Everybody laughs and he says a lot of funny, cute things. The collective admiration and adoration of my family all focused on my little boy is really meaningful for me. After dinner we head back to our hotel room. He runs more wind sprints in the hallway and again, sleeps through the night. On our last day, we head to the New England Aquarium. We look at all the fish. Alexander’s attention span is limited, so we move very quickly from penguins to eels to sharks. He seems highly motivated to get me into the gift shop so he can get a treat. When we get back on the plane to head home Alexander is great. He looks out the window the whole time, clutching the new stuffed animal I got him. As somebody who’s been meditating for nearly a decade now, I’ve had many moments during this trip where I’m really glad to have the training because I’m able to just tune in to how, for lack of a less cheesy word, how sweet this experience is. I love this kid. Obviously, every parent loves their child. But especially given the fact that I'm an older dad, I’m 47, and given everything Bianca and I went through to get this kid, this whole situation is especially poignant. When Bianca and I first had Alexander, I remember there being a whole tsunami of sentiment, both over email from my friends and on social media from people I didn’t know, where we were being told and exhorted to enjoy every moment, or cherish every moment. And I always wondered about that. Is this just a kind of perfunctory thing that people say or is it maybe based in some sort of remorse that they may feel about having let their kid’s childhood slip by without really taking it all in while it was happening? One of the many things meditation is designed to do is to wake you up and to help you be right here wherever you happen to be. Throughout the course of my jaunt with my son, there are a lot of little snapshots in my mind of him looking out the window as the plane flew; or watching him look at the penguins in the Aquarium or fiddle with legos at Legoland; or dance around, bagel in hand, while my family laughs. And in all of these moments I was really able to do the opposite of zoning out, I was able to zone in. And in my experience, that really amplifies the awesomeness quotient immeasurably. The self awareness that I’ve been able to generate, that anybody can generate, through meditation allows me to notice and accentuate joy. And it can provoke what I consider to be healthy reflection about the fact, the inarguable fact, that these moments are fleeting, so it’s best not to waste them by reflexively reaching for my iPhone or something. GUNATILLAKE: In this world of distractions, our minds have become so well trained to jump from one thing to another. You might even feel that pull right now. If so, can you rest and acknowledge how Dan's story is making you feel. Letting any enjoyment or appreciation sink in. HARRIS: I should say that there are a few moments during our trip where Alexander says he misses mommy. It hurts my feelings a bit, but I just do a version of what we’re told to do during meditation. Rather than denying or trying to paper over that his feelings exist, I get him to tune in to himself. I ask him: “How does missing mommy make him feel? Sad?” And if he says yes, which he usually does, I say “It’s ok to feel sad, I get it. But we’re going to see her very soon. And in the meantime, we’re gonna have fun.” Generally speaking, this works like a charm. When we finally get home and ride the elevator up to our apartment, I prepare to tell his mother about what an amazing job Alexander did. Within minutes though, pretty much as soon as he’s around his mother again, he has a temper tantrum. Not at me, it’s directed quite squarely at her. This speaks, in my view, to the impenetrable bond he has with her and it actually makes me feel like this whole dynamic among the three of us is less about me and more about the fact that many children simply have intense relationships with their mothers. And you know what, I think it’s great that they have this bond. It’s now clear that there’s nothing for me to feel jealous or resentful about. Clearly, the move here, is just for me to make time for Alexander and I to interact one on one, so we can build our own relationship. And I think our boys trip really helped on that front. Interrupting the patterns, the grooves, in our everyday lives created new space for us to relate to one another differently. We’re building our own repertoire of private jokes and secret memories, mostly involving my allowing him to have more chocolate than mommy does. So I’ve decided that I'm going to do it again. We're already talking about going down to Florida together. I've also learned my lesson about the crazy hair in the mornings. Now, when I wake up, many days I put water in my hair so I look better for him. That has also helped. Oh, and the other day, he told me that he has now decided that daddy is, henceforth, allowed to put him to bed. So I’m finally on par with our cat Ruby. GUNATILLAKE: Parenting is hard. Given that my own eldest child, a boy, is pretty much the same age as Alexander, there’s a lot that I recognize in Dan’s story, the importance of stepping out of everyday routines in order to connect. But of all the themes, the one that stands out the most for me is the simple power of time spent together. When there’s disconnection, we solve it by connecting. Letting time and attention do their work. Attention and connection are in their own way the heart of meditation. So since you’re here, why not join me in a short meditation inspired by Dan’s story. It’ll be in two parts and we’ll start here, just as you are. Whatever position your body is in, if you’re moving or still, take a breath. Take two. Take as many as you want. If it’s been one of those days, why not sigh? Letting the sound drain away any tension that you might have been holding. And in this first part of the meditation, the idea is to just rest your attention with the body. No need to fixate on any area in particular, instead just resting, being aware of the body as a whole. Giving it your attention. Connecting. Letting the whole body, however it is, fill your awareness, soaking up your attention. As you do so, there will be flickers away from your connection with the body – times when particular sensations, thoughts, feelings come in and takeover. As with Dan, these might include doubt, judgement, boredom, worry, tiredness. It’s ok. Whenever you notice your connection with your overall sense of the body break, just come back and start again. Bringing the attention back. Reconnecting. Ok, now that you’re hopefully feeling a bit more grounded let’s move into the second part of the meditation. What I’d like you to do is to bring someone to mind that you wish you could spend more time with. For Dan it was his son. For me it’s my eldest sister. Who is it for you? There’s no right answer, but in my experience the first person you think of is probably the best person to go with. If you’re a visual person, you can picture an image of them. But if, like me, you don’t have too much of a visual mind, just recall something about them, an event, a feeling, a story, an image without pictures. Whatever helps bring them to mind, whatever helps bring them into your awareness. And this is where we’ll rest. Keeping your person in mind, spending time with the image of them. It might feel totally contrived, totally fake. That’s ok. It can be like that sometimes. Just do it anyway. Bringing to mind the person you wish you could spend more time with and keeping them in awareness as much as you can. As you do this, all sorts of thoughts may come up. Thoughts of regret, self-judgement, doubt. Thoughts of delight, happiness and joy as you feel touched by them. They’re all ok. We do the best we can, you know. Let this gentle attention towards your dear person forge a real sense of connection. They might be far away, they might be in the next room. You might have seen them just five minutes ago, or it could have been decades. It’s all ok. Your body relaxed. Your breathing gentle. Your special person in mind. Filling your mind. Feeling the charge between you. Trusting the quality of your wish to spend more time with them. Deepening your connection. Just as Dan did with Alexander.
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Michelle Thaller
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
"Fighting can help you find out who you are; the ring a place of real vulnerability; your only weapons, your only allies: your body, your training, and your instincts. Meditation is also a space where we become exposed. Willingly. Letting our physical being, our thoughts, our habits, the contents of our minds be revealed."
About Thomas Page McBee
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Thomas Page McBee
From the closing meditation
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Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
TRANSFORMATION
"Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here?"
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE: I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: The boxing ring may seem like the last place to find calmness and compassion. However it’s precisely there where today’s Meditative Story takes us. Thomas Page McBee is a transgender writer who found answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting, and along the way discovered what happens when you stop trying to win. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. There’s a real drama, a real intensity to those moments before a boxing match, isn’t there? The fighters waiting for their names to be called. Waiting. Ready. Hyped. Notice the level of energy in your body, whatever it is. Any areas of vibration, areas of stillness. Heat and cool. Dropping any thoughts of elsewhere and trusting our instincts and our abilities. Alert, here, ready to go. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MCBEE: To ground myself in this moment, I bite down hard on my mouth guard. Then, when the roving spotlight finds me, I make my way down the aisle toward the ring – at the heart of the most storied sporting venue on Earth. This is Madison Square Garden – and I’m the first trans man to ever fight in it. An amateur in every sense of the word. “Thomas McBEAST McBee,” the announcer says. I swing myself between the ropes, and hop up and down on the soft mat, my gloved hands in the air. The blurry crowd cheers, amused. I am not a boxer, not really. I’m a 34-year-old writer. Last summer, when I pitched my editor a story about me learning how to fight, it’s because I want to box in order to unpack the vexed relationship between masculinity and violence. I’d only been a man for all the world for four years, but my experience with male violence has been lifelong. My worst fear is that I’m destined to be as toxic as the abusive man who raised me. This isn’t just about boxing. This is about looking my worst fears in the face. For five months, I spend every spare minute training in a dank basement gym near Wall Street, soundtracked by hip-hop and the thwack of gloves hitting bags and faces. What I find there is surprising. As I jump rope and hit heavy bags and learn the language of boxing, I discover a beautiful ballet beneath the posturing. There’s an intimacy in the gym that exposes fighters to their vulnerabilities as much as their strengths. I get to know myself in those hours of relentless discipline, and I get to know the other men too. I learn that I’ve got a good chin, which means I can take a punch and shake it off. “You’ve got a lot of heart,” a grizzled old fighter tells me. It’s boxing’s biggest compliment. For the first time, I can see it. These men reflect me back to myself. They see me at my most scared, and they never stop believing in me. Here they are now, Stephen, Kenny and Ed, gathering ringside to watch. As I extend a glove toward them, they holler encouragement my way. Then I turn away from them, and bring my focus back into the ring. My opponent, Eric, enters to his fight song. My coach, Danny, steps up into the ring, and puts his face close to mine. Everything else falls away. We lock eyes as Danny gives me water, tightens my head gear, and checks the laces on my gloves. “You got this, Tommy,” he says. His voice is all I can hear, and then he’s gone, retreating back behind the ropes. I size up my opponent, who’s squat and thick. He walloped me in our qualifying spar a couple of months ago, and I know he thinks that I’ll be easily defeated. The bell rings and I advance toward him, squeezing the rough innards of my gloves, narrowing my focus in an animal way. I know there’s cheering, but exterior sound is sucked out of the ring. I hear nothing in the vacuum but my heartbeat, my breath, the squeak of our shoes. I see nothing but his eyes over his gloves. GUNATILLAKE: Can you imagine being there, looking through Thomas's eyes? See his opponent, the movement of his feet dancing, the color of his gloves. Notice the four rows of ropes and the posts making up the ring around you, notice the blur of the crowd behind them. MCBEE: In the first round, I channel my aggression, keeping it hot but not letting it overtake me. I register the occasional cheer of the crowd, but the sound mostly hangs on the periphery of my narrowed senses. I see the defeated slump of my opponent’s shoulders. The ref gives him a standing eight count. The cheers pour back in. I raise my hands in the air and dance around the ring, welcoming this moment in the sun, even if it is at Eric’s expense. I’d spent my whole life afraid of men. As I circle Eric, the tang of our sweat thick and twinned, I realize in that moment – that moment when I’m winning – that all I want is to see that I have nothing to fear. I’ve taught my body exactly how to fight back. Even as I charge him, I feel a surge of kindness toward him. I can feel myself letting go of the need to win. I can see, in the way he squares his shoulders and takes wilder and wilder shots, that the outcome that no longer matters to me, means the world to him. His pride is wounded and I realize that, no matter what happens, mine can’t be. I don’t stake my masculinity on this fight. My gender has nothing to do with winning. My masculinity is my own. GUNATILLAKE: Can you sense the freedom? The freedom that Thomas feels that whatever happens ultimately won’t affect his sense of himself. Where do you sense that feeling of letting go in your body? Let go. MCBEE: At the bell, I return to my corner, and sound floods back in. Danny makes me raise my hands in the air. “That was fucking perfect,” he marvels. The guys ringside jump up and down. The bell rings again, round two. The crowd, sensing a comeback, cheers wildly. In their eyes, Eric’s the underdog. I’m the villain. He’s newly energized. I watch him re-inflate, find his power, and it’s oddly beautiful. To win, I have to find a way to hate him, and I can’t. Boxing is karmic that way. I had my moment. Now it’s his. The crowd seeps back in, calling his name. I see a smile curl his mouth. He’s leaning in for the win. But I can’t summon the same dark impulse, and I’m at peace with that. I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. I retreat to my corner when the bell rings, and try to pay attention to Danny, who’s talking in a steady stream boxing clichés: Don’t gas out, get in and out, bunches of punches. But his words are less comforting than his voice, a tether as he wipes my face, and takes care of me. I take in the crowd again, their faces a drunken, bloodthirsty blur. I want a burger. I want to hug my girlfriend. I want to be gentle with myself. I’m alive. I’m alive. Danny calls my name and brings me back: “Tommy!” I look back at him and smile. He hits me lightly on the top of my head. It’s round three. The last round is a wheeling, spinning, spangle of color and sound. I hear the crowd again, shouting: “E-ric, E-ric, E-ric.” It’s a comeback story for them, I can see that – and the story isn’t mine. But we’re in this together, Eric and I, bonded. As we run down the last two minutes, exhausted, our headgear askew, I love him, I really do. As the last bell rings, I raise my hands high in the air and walk back toward my corner. For the first time since I can remember, my future feels expansive and bright. We remove our gloves and meet in the center of the ring, both of us slick with sweat. The ref stands between us, holding both of our hands, and I keep my other one in the air even as they announce that Eric’s won. GUNATILLAKE: What posture are you in right now? As the two fighters raise their arms in victory, what quality does your posture symbolize? Can you feel a connection with the people and space around you, just as Thomas did? MCBEE: They say that you find out who you are in the ring, when you’re stripped of pretense and exposed, with only your body and your instincts to define you. I think that’s true. Fighting is a natural response to threat, and we’re all capable of standing up for ourselves when it counts. Winning, however, is more subjective than it might appear. A fighter fights himself, as my coach always says. I fought my fears. As they call Eric’s name, I turn toward him, and hug him tight. I’m so happy for him. “I didn’t win,” I think to myself, as I walk back to my corner. But I won. GUNATILLAKE: Boxing and meditation are perhaps not as different from each other as you might have thought before hearing Thomas’ story. Thomas speaks rather beautifully about how fighting can help you find out who you are, the ring a place of real vulnerability, your only weapons, your only allies, your body, your training and your instincts. Meditation is also a space where we become exposed. Willingly. Letting our physical being, our thoughts, our habits, the contents of our minds be revealed. And it’s not always pretty. While the popular idea is that meditation is all relaxation and bliss, rainbows and fluffy bunnies, to be honest, most of the time it’s anything but. It can sometimes be a real struggle. Physical discomfort. Negative thoughts. Patterns of mind that perhaps we once suppressed, rising back into our awareness. But it’s ok. With time, and with skill, like Thomas we learn when we need to advance, and when to drop back. Like Thomas, we learn to dance. So let’s meditate. Let’s dance. Eyes open or eyes closed, it’s up to you. Whichever makes most sense, and makes you most safe. Tuning into breathing. Whether it’s in the belly, the chest, or elsewhere, just become aware of your breathing. If it helps, you can put your hand on your belly for a stronger connection. Breathing. Your body just doing it by itself. Ok. Now notice where you are aware of some tension or agitation in the body. Whether it’s been a long day already or if you’ve only just got up, you’ll most likely have some kind of tightness or discomfort along the front of the body: the chest, the stomach, the neck, the jaw. Or along the back of the body: the shoulders, the upper back, the lower back. Drop the breath and instead move to the area of discomfort that is most calling for your attention right now. Again, only doing this if it feels safe to do.For me right now, it’s a sensation of real tension and uncomfortable heat in my shoulders. What is it for you? With our attention, our awareness here on this difficult sensation, can you notice how you’re reacting to the sensation? Are you pushing it away? Are you wishing it wasn’t here? Are you fighting it? It was such a beautiful moment in Thomas’s story when – right in the middle of the fight – he dropped the need to win. He continued to fight but he did so with love for his opponent and his victory was assured. Inspired by Thomas, let’s do the same. While still feeling the intensity of whatever physical discomfort most stands out for us right now, can we drop the struggle? Still feeling it in all its detail, but letting it be there, not pushing it away. Being with the difficult, not ignoring it. Loving it and all its glory, not fighting it. There are two general approaches one can take in meditation. The first is to place our mind somewhere lovely, and let ourselves be nourished and refreshed by the pleasure – however gentle – that brings. That’s a wonderful way to do meditation and at the right time, just what we need. But it’s not transformative, since the inevitable difficulties of life are still around, just not being given attention. So the other approach is to look directly at the difficult. To bring it into our awareness, to know it, to learn from it – and yes, even to love it. It’s the harder road. But as Thomas showed us in his story, it’s the road where the greatest victories are won. Be well.
THOMAS'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Life and love and the moment
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THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
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Life and love and the moment
DAN HARRIS
THOMAS'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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Thomas Page McBee is the author of the Lambda award-winning memoir Man Alive. His second book, Amateur, a reported memoir about learning how to box in order to understand masculinity’s tie to violence, was named a best book of 2018 by many publications. McBee was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden, a “masculinity expert” for VICE, and the author of the columns “Self-Made Man” for the Rumpus, “The American Man” for Pacific Standard, and “Amateur” for Condé Nast's Them. His current column, Boys to Men, features honest conversations about masculinity for Teen Vogue. A former senior editor at Quartz, his essays and reportage have appeared in the New York Times, Playboy, Glamour, Out, The Cut, and more. Learn more about Thomas Page McBee here.
From the closing meditation
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE: I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: The boxing ring may seem like the last place to find calmness and compassion. However it’s precisely there where today’s Meditative Story takes us. Thomas Page McBee is a transgender writer who found answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting, and along the way discovered what happens when you stop trying to win. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. There’s a real drama, a real intensity to those moments before a boxing match, isn’t there? The fighters waiting for their names to be called. Waiting. Ready. Hyped. Notice the level of energy in your body, whatever it is. Any areas of vibration, areas of stillness. Heat and cool. Dropping any thoughts of elsewhere and trusting our instincts and our abilities. Alert, here, ready to go. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MCBEE: To ground myself in this moment, I bite down hard on my mouth guard. Then, when the roving spotlight finds me, I make my way down the aisle toward the ring – at the heart of the most storied sporting venue on Earth. This is Madison Square Garden – and I’m the first trans man to ever fight in it. An amateur in every sense of the word. “Thomas McBEAST McBee,” the announcer says. I swing myself between the ropes, and hop up and down on the soft mat, my gloved hands in the air. The blurry crowd cheers, amused. I am not a boxer, not really. I’m a 34-year-old writer. Last summer, when I pitched my editor a story about me learning how to fight, it’s because I want to box in order to unpack the vexed relationship between masculinity and violence. I’d only been a man for all the world for four years, but my experience with male violence has been lifelong. My worst fear is that I’m destined to be as toxic as the abusive man who raised me. This isn’t just about boxing. This is about looking my worst fears in the face. For five months, I spend every spare minute training in a dank basement gym near Wall Street, soundtracked by hip-hop and the thwack of gloves hitting bags and faces. What I find there is surprising. As I jump rope and hit heavy bags and learn the language of boxing, I discover a beautiful ballet beneath the posturing. There’s an intimacy in the gym that exposes fighters to their vulnerabilities as much as their strengths. I get to know myself in those hours of relentless discipline, and I get to know the other men too. I learn that I’ve got a good chin, which means I can take a punch and shake it off. “You’ve got a lot of heart,” a grizzled old fighter tells me. It’s boxing’s biggest compliment. For the first time, I can see it. These men reflect me back to myself. They see me at my most scared, and they never stop believing in me. Here they are now, Stephen, Kenny and Ed, gathering ringside to watch. As I extend a glove toward them, they holler encouragement my way. Then I turn away from them, and bring my focus back into the ring. My opponent, Eric, enters to his fight song. My coach, Danny, steps up into the ring, and puts his face close to mine. Everything else falls away. We lock eyes as Danny gives me water, tightens my head gear, and checks the laces on my gloves. “You got this, Tommy,” he says. His voice is all I can hear, and then he’s gone, retreating back behind the ropes. I size up my opponent, who’s squat and thick. He walloped me in our qualifying spar a couple of months ago, and I know he thinks that I’ll be easily defeated. The bell rings and I advance toward him, squeezing the rough innards of my gloves, narrowing my focus in an animal way. I know there’s cheering, but exterior sound is sucked out of the ring. I hear nothing in the vacuum but my heartbeat, my breath, the squeak of our shoes. I see nothing but his eyes over his gloves. GUNATILLAKE: Can you imagine being there, looking through Thomas's eyes? See his opponent, the movement of his feet dancing, the color of his gloves. Notice the four rows of ropes and the posts making up the ring around you, notice the blur of the crowd behind them. MCBEE: In the first round, I channel my aggression, keeping it hot but not letting it overtake me. I register the occasional cheer of the crowd, but the sound mostly hangs on the periphery of my narrowed senses. I see the defeated slump of my opponent’s shoulders. The ref gives him a standing eight count. The cheers pour back in. I raise my hands in the air and dance around the ring, welcoming this moment in the sun, even if it is at Eric’s expense. I’d spent my whole life afraid of men. As I circle Eric, the tang of our sweat thick and twinned, I realize in that moment – that moment when I’m winning – that all I want is to see that I have nothing to fear. I’ve taught my body exactly how to fight back. Even as I charge him, I feel a surge of kindness toward him. I can feel myself letting go of the need to win. I can see, in the way he squares his shoulders and takes wilder and wilder shots, that the outcome that no longer matters to me, means the world to him. His pride is wounded and I realize that, no matter what happens, mine can’t be. I don’t stake my masculinity on this fight. My gender has nothing to do with winning. My masculinity is my own. GUNATILLAKE: Can you sense the freedom? The freedom that Thomas feels that whatever happens ultimately won’t affect his sense of himself. Where do you sense that feeling of letting go in your body? Let go. MCBEE: At the bell, I return to my corner, and sound floods back in. Danny makes me raise my hands in the air. “That was fucking perfect,” he marvels. The guys ringside jump up and down. The bell rings again, round two. The crowd, sensing a comeback, cheers wildly. In their eyes, Eric’s the underdog. I’m the villain. He’s newly energized. I watch him re-inflate, find his power, and it’s oddly beautiful. To win, I have to find a way to hate him, and I can’t. Boxing is karmic that way. I had my moment. Now it’s his. The crowd seeps back in, calling his name. I see a smile curl his mouth. He’s leaning in for the win. But I can’t summon the same dark impulse, and I’m at peace with that. I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. I retreat to my corner when the bell rings, and try to pay attention to Danny, who’s talking in a steady stream boxing clichés: Don’t gas out, get in and out, bunches of punches. But his words are less comforting than his voice, a tether as he wipes my face, and takes care of me. I take in the crowd again, their faces a drunken, bloodthirsty blur. I want a burger. I want to hug my girlfriend. I want to be gentle with myself. I’m alive. I’m alive. Danny calls my name and brings me back: “Tommy!” I look back at him and smile. He hits me lightly on the top of my head. It’s round three. The last round is a wheeling, spinning, spangle of color and sound. I hear the crowd again, shouting: “E-ric, E-ric, E-ric.” It’s a comeback story for them, I can see that – and the story isn’t mine. But we’re in this together, Eric and I, bonded. As we run down the last two minutes, exhausted, our headgear askew, I love him, I really do. As the last bell rings, I raise my hands high in the air and walk back toward my corner. For the first time since I can remember, my future feels expansive and bright. We remove our gloves and meet in the center of the ring, both of us slick with sweat. The ref stands between us, holding both of our hands, and I keep my other one in the air even as they announce that Eric’s won. GUNATILLAKE: What posture are you in right now? As the two fighters raise their arms in victory, what quality does your posture symbolize? Can you feel a connection with the people and space around you, just as Thomas did? MCBEE: They say that you find out who you are in the ring, when you’re stripped of pretense and exposed, with only your body and your instincts to define you. I think that’s true. Fighting is a natural response to threat, and we’re all capable of standing up for ourselves when it counts. Winning, however, is more subjective than it might appear. A fighter fights himself, as my coach always says. I fought my fears. As they call Eric’s name, I turn toward him, and hug him tight. I’m so happy for him. “I didn’t win,” I think to myself, as I walk back to my corner. But I won. GUNATILLAKE: Boxing and meditation are perhaps not as different from each other as you might have thought before hearing Thomas’ story. Thomas speaks rather beautifully about how fighting can help you find out who you are, the ring a place of real vulnerability, your only weapons, your only allies, your body, your training and your instincts. Meditation is also a space where we become exposed. Willingly. Letting our physical being, our thoughts, our habits, the contents of our minds be revealed. And it’s not always pretty. While the popular idea is that meditation is all relaxation and bliss, rainbows and fluffy bunnies, to be honest, most of the time it’s anything but. It can sometimes be a real struggle. Physical discomfort. Negative thoughts. Patterns of mind that perhaps we once suppressed, rising back into our awareness. But it’s ok. With time, and with skill, like Thomas we learn when we need to advance, and when to drop back. Like Thomas, we learn to dance. So let’s meditate. Let’s dance. Eyes open or eyes closed, it’s up to you. Whichever makes most sense, and makes you most safe. Tuning into breathing. Whether it’s in the belly, the chest, or elsewhere, just become aware of your breathing. If it helps, you can put your hand on your belly for a stronger connection. Breathing. Your body just doing it by itself. Ok. Now notice where you are aware of some tension or agitation in the body. Whether it’s been a long day already or if you’ve only just got up, you’ll most likely have some kind of tightness or discomfort along the front of the body: the chest, the stomach, the neck, the jaw. Or along the back of the body: the shoulders, the upper back, the lower back. Drop the breath and instead move to the area of discomfort that is most calling for your attention right now. Again, only doing this if it feels safe to do.For me right now, it’s a sensation of real tension and uncomfortable heat in my shoulders. What is it for you? With our attention, our awareness here on this difficult sensation, can you notice how you’re reacting to the sensation? Are you pushing it away? Are you wishing it wasn’t here? Are you fighting it? It was such a beautiful moment in Thomas’s story when – right in the middle of the fight – he dropped the need to win. He continued to fight but he did so with love for his opponent and his victory was assured. Inspired by Thomas, let’s do the same. While still feeling the intensity of whatever physical discomfort most stands out for us right now, can we drop the struggle? Still feeling it in all its detail, but letting it be there, not pushing it away. Being with the difficult, not ignoring it. Loving it and all its glory, not fighting it. There are two general approaches one can take in meditation. The first is to place our mind somewhere lovely, and let ourselves be nourished and refreshed by the pleasure – however gentle – that brings. That’s a wonderful way to do meditation and at the right time, just what we need. But it’s not transformative, since the inevitable difficulties of life are still around, just not being given attention. So the other approach is to look directly at the difficult. To bring it into our awareness, to know it, to learn from it – and yes, even to love it. It’s the harder road. But as Thomas showed us in his story, it’s the road where the greatest victories are won. Be well.
CLARITY
Thomas Page McBee
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Episode Transcript
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
Thomas Page McBee is an author and a journalist – and was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden. But that fight, born out of a pitch to editors, wasn't about overpowering an opponent. It was about confronting his own fears – of masculinity, of aggression and inadequacy – and winning.
Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
Arianna Huffington
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Thomas Page McBee is the author of the Lambda award-winning memoir Man Alive. His second book, Amateur, a reported memoir about learning how to box in order to understand masculinity’s tie to violence, was named a best book of 2018 by many publications. McBee was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden, a “masculinity expert” for VICE, and the author of the columns “Self-Made Man” for the Rumpus, “The American Man” for Pacific Standard, and “Amateur” for Condé Nast's Them. His current column, Boys to Men, features honest conversations about masculinity for Teen Vogue. A former senior editor at Quartz, his essays and reportage have appeared in the New York Times, Playboy, Glamour, Out, The Cut, and more. Learn more about Thomas Page McBee here.
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Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
PRESENCE
Episode Transcript
About Thomas Page McBee
PRESENCE
Arianna Huffington
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
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Thomas Page McBee is an author and a journalist – and was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden. But that fight, born out of a pitch to editors, wasn't about overpowering an opponent. It was about confronting his own fears – of masculinity, of aggression and inadequacy – and winning.
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
KRISTA TIPPETT: Looking back, if I could change something, I wish I’d been kinder to myself all along. A year or so ago, I was telling someone this story of my 20s and they said: “How did you get to be so brave?” And I realized I’d never given myself any credit for being brave. I was always second guessing myself or planning what I had to do next. I didn’t give myself credit for how far I’d come and all the experiences I’d had. And I think it was brave. And I need to honor the bravery in myself so I can honor it in others. This bravery is not about being fearless, because I wasn’t fearless. But in walking with the fear – and through it when everything I thought I knew turned out to be flimsy and questionable. And as I walked through it all, there was revelation, and there was confusion, and there was discovery. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Where for you, is the most beautiful place in the world? For Krista Tippett it’s a Spanish Island village in the Mediterranean Sea. Krista Tippett is a journalist, former diplomat, and the long-time host of “On Being”. Today, she shares a story of when she took a break from the intensity of her life and just stopped to check in with herself. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with brief mindfulness prompts from me. I’m Rohan, your guide on this episode of Meditative Story. Let’s take a moment to check in, to listen to ourselves. Just letting your inner life be what it is in this moment, and knowing it just as it is. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. TIPPETT: I spent most of my 20s in divided cold war in Berlin. It was the 1980’s. I was a thoroughly political person. I went there as a New York Times stringer, but for my last year and a half I was chief aide in West Berlin to the US ambassador to West Germany; a nuclear arms expert, a Reagan appointee. I'm sitting around tables with people who move thousands of missiles around on a map of Europe as though it were a gameboard. Arms experts and foreign policy specialists, and people who have the ears of world leaders and who are defining policy around these weapons of mass destruction. I’m very close to genuine power and I’m aware of it in this room. It’s kind of incomprehensible. There's an exhilaration to it, and there's a seductiveness to it – and there's an emptiness to it at the same time. It's very exciting when I first walk into the room, but then the longer I stay, at some level, I am profoundly bored by all of this. I don’t think this is how I should feel. On the other side of the wall, in East Berlin, I travel to visit beloved friends in their apartment on the Chausseestrasse, a legendary street in Berlin’s history. They live in this apartment building where a famous dissident had lived. It has the history of East Germany in it and then it also wears a history of vanished Germanies. It feels ancient and a bit tumbledown in this chapter, forty years into communism. My friends are artists. And the apartment is crowded and overflowing with half-finished paintings and musical instruments, and the world of their daughters – and just full of life and chaos. It’s warm and alive and everything in here matters. Everything we talk about really matters: friendships and words, food and pleasure, and whatever joy you can extract together. In the living room there’s a life sized bust of a mutual friend of ours, a poet who became so uncomfortable to the government that they banished him across the Wall. He’s twenty minutes away from, but they believe, and I believe, that none of us will ever see him again. So there’s grief in this apartment too, and longing, and love. It makes me realize that I’ve come to the end of what I can get out of my work in West Berlin. I long to get away and think all of this through: politics and its extremes and its limits. I don’t actually have space in my life literally or even contemplatively. On the one hand, my life here is full of ideas, but on the other hand it isn’t full of a depth of thoughtfulness. I know I’ve had an incredible experience here, but it’s time for me to move on. GUNATILLAKE: Do you ever feel like you don't have space? Perhaps you're in a phase of your life where that's true right now. If it helps, take a moment to feel your feet on the ground, open out your chest. Relief is available in every moment when we remember to turn to it. TIPPETT: It’s the summer of 1988, the year before the Wall comes down. No one can fathom that. And as desperate as I am to step away to make sense, I think I have to do something that sounds impressive. I give myself a four to five month stretch before I plan to head back to D.C. and more politics in the US. And I set off to write a novel. I decide to go to the most beautiful place I've ever been in the world, this little village on Majorca called Deia. It’s not overrun by tourists. It’s a really eccentric, hard to get to, artists colony with a lot of expatriates. I found it through a journalist friend and fell in love with it. It’s so lush, and fragrant. There’s so much color, so many flowers. You're crunching almonds under your feet as you walk around. The beach is a mile’s hike, no road goes there, and it’s amazing. In my memory the journalist’s house is kind of like a castle and I have this romantic vision of going there to settle into myself and be creative and reflect. “I'm going to write my novel here.” But then shortly before I’m to arrive, the very charismatic journalist dies suddenly, of a heart attack. His widow offers to find me another place to live, and she does – but my idyllic vision is shattered. I had the perfect plan and now it’s coming apart. It all feels doomed and I feel very alone and adrift. But she connects me with this man named Robert who has a room in his house for rent. He’s an English accountant who retired to Deia to tend his garden and restore rare books. I arrive and take a taxi to Robert’s house. It all feels very disorienting. I have the directions for where I’m supposed to go but it’s just a spot on the road. There’s no driveway or mailbox. The car stops and Robert is there to meet me. He appears to me this first time, I meet him as a grizzled man. He looks bedraggled and a little bit unsafe. He's missing a tooth or two and he has berry juice stains on his chin and his clothes. And there’s not exactly a path to his house; we kind of fight our way down a hill beneath the road through the brush. And I think, “Who is this person? Where I am I? What have I done?” We finally reach the house and it’s so simple, but really so smart and sturdy. Nothing fancy but elegant. Amazing really. There’s a nobility to it, and a peacefulness to it. It’s just falling off the side of a mountain. I don’t actually know how it stays attached to the Earth. The house is just an add-on to the garden, which is wild and magical. Robert sleeps in a hammock on the porch outside his bedroom every night. And I stay in a very simple room at the other side of the house. Everything is stone. Nothing fancy, but it’s perfect. I love it. I have a nice bed, and a little desk, and a tiny window. My view of the mountains is like a postcard and it is exquisite. The minute I walk in, the very first time, I think to myself, “I’m going to be really happy in this room.” And I am. GUNATILLAKE: Can you catch the fragrance of the flowers in the garden? The mountains and their majesty keeping everything in perspective. Take it in for a moment. Let go. TIPPETT: In Deia, I realize how exhausted I am and I how I hadn't been letting myself feel that. This stranger, Robert, in his mid 70s, nurses me back to health. I didn’t know I needed somebody to do that for me. He bakes bread from scratch every day and he makes everything out of his garden, these incredible salads where every ingredient is plucked straight from the ground. And there’s always a little dirt left in. He recommends books I’ve never read and gives me a cassette tape of Beethoven's late quartets. It becomes the soundtrack of my summer. I write all day, every day, on a schedule, but at lunchtime and in the evening I sit in the garden looking at the mountain and listening to this music. I get quiet for the first time in about 10 years. I start to pray, without calling it that at first. It takes me a while to figure out, but eventually I realize that sitting in this garden is actually the whole point of being here. This place isn’t on any of the maps that I'd been dealing with in Berlin. But it’s real, and it’s solid, and it matters. People are creating lives here that are as significant as those sitting around a conference table. And it’s a relief, because I think part of the reason I wasn’t able to imagine life beyond that career is that it felt like, if I could do that, which was so important, then how could I walk away from it? Sitting here, I remember that the world is complex and strange and that there's importance all over the place, different forms of importance. Coming out of that, getting quiet, I begin to open up to my inner life again. I ask the questions I need to ask about that world of high policy and why it’s wrong for me. It scares me to imagine the future differently, but I like myself so much more and I like myself in my body so much better sitting in this garden. It’s not about power in that sense. Being here leads me onto this whole other way forward. It leads me to what I do now. When I was in Berlin, it was all very exciting. Diplomatic dinner parties. Adventures half-way across the world. But also long, long days of work. It was very intense. My work absolutely bled into my life. There was no separation and absolutely no value placed on the rest of my life – or in ever getting away. What’s so striking to me now when I look back is how completely lacking in self awareness I was. How, in that life I was leading, it would have felt nonsensical to question it. Wearing myself into exhaustion was inevitable. I was so focused on accomplishment. Now I’m amidst the incredible beauty of the natural world in Deia, with this completely unexpected person in my life, and his generosity and kindness. The power of that. It’s an experience of hospitality. A human presence that has no interest in, ambition for, or goals of impressing. It creates this space for me that I hadn't been in, that maybe I'd never let myself be in. This is my turning point. I don't think I would have walked the direction I walked later if it weren’t for the time I spent in Robert’s garden. I wasn't expecting it and I wasn't looking for it. GUNATILLAKE: What would it take for you to do something unexpected? How do we find the courage to do the things we really need to do? It’s always worth being in silence, asking yourself that question and listening closely to the result. Maybe you can do that later today? TIPPETT: And there was something in that experience that flowed into everything I’ve done since. I wanted to make that possibility of reflection and restoration and life-giving questioning both more a part of my life but also more visible to others, more accessible. I think I had been asking this question all along: What do I want to do with my life? What kind of power do I care about exercising? What do I want to manifest in the world? Looking back, if I could change something, I wish I’d been kinder to myself all along. A year or so ago, I was telling someone this story of my 20s and they said: “How did you get to be so brave?” And I realized I’d never given myself any credit for being brave. I was always second guessing myself or planning what I had to do next. I didn’t give myself credit for how far I’d come and all the experiences I’d had. And I think it was brave. And I need to honor the bravery in myself so I can honor it in others. This bravery is not about being fearless, because I wasn’t fearless. But in walking with the fear – and through it, when everything I thought I knew turned out to be flimsy and questionable. And as I walked through it all, there was revelation, and there was confusion, and there was discovery. Now I see that I was on an adventure, all along. I think the thing that I did right was that I kept directing that adventure in generative ways. I wish I had been able to be a little bit more pleased and relax a little bit more into it and just enjoy it when it was fun, to take even more pleasure in the good days and the excitement of the questions and the excitement of discovery. I had stumbled on this strange mystery and reality that the only real power that sustains us we find inside ourselves – and in the care and company of others. GUNATILLAKE: What inspires me about Krista’s story is her ability to simply stop, which of course is not simple at all. Coming from the intensity of her time in Berlin to the quiet of Robert’s Mallorcan garden, she still held onto the idea of writing her novel. But that plan soon vanishes and Krista truly stops trying to achieve, lets go, and opens up. The same can happen in meditation. Even though it’s most associated with relaxation and letting go, many people still bring the mindset of achievement and goals to their practice. And while that can take you some way, there comes a point when you have to let go of all that. There even comes a time when you have to let go of the idea of a meditation technique. And that’s what we’re going to do today. No technique. Just meditation. No technique. Just mindful awareness. That’s what this meditation is all about. Pure, simple meditation practice. And just taking a short while to settle yourself in for it. Closing the eyes if it’s safe to do so. Relaxing the eyes if you’d rather have them open. Letting your back be upright. Your head sitting elegantly upon your neck. Letting the belly be relaxed. The belly soft and fluid. Committing yourself to this short period of meditation. Enjoying the luxury of time dedicated to mindfulness. And in this meditation we’ll drop technique, drop the need to do anything in particular, and just be here. Be where you are. Aware, alert, and alive. Nothing to do but be here and to be aware. Just here. Knowing what is happening while it is happening. Dropping all ideas of what meditation should be like, and just being present. And knowing what that’s like. Not making anything more important than anything else. Just here. And letting mindfulness just do its job. Letting everything be known. If you feel your mind has wandered away, remember that because we’re not looking at anything in particular, there’s nothing for it to wander away from. Just wakefulness. And what is known by that wakefulness. If you feel your mind has wandered away again, and then you remember you’re meditating, noticing that in that very moment there is mindfulness. Mindfulness re-establishing itself. Without you having to do anything. All you have to do is be here. Doing nothing. Alert and aware. Everything known. Nothing left out. Knowing what is happening as it happens, without judgement. And if judgement arises, allowing that, knowing that. However your body is. Simple. Relaxed. Open. Aware. Just here. Not doing anything. Just here. Not chasing after experience. Just here. Leaving everything alone. And if thoughts arise, no need to go out to them and get caught up. No need to give them any more fuel. Just resting. And letting everything happen. Just being aware, just watching, whatever there is to be watched. Enjoying the stillness of just being here. Enjoying whatever silence there might be. And when there’s noise, knowing that too and letting it be here. Celebrating the fact that you have awareness at all. And letting it be free. Just here. Upright. Relaxed. And alert. Dropping all techniques. Dropping all notions of what meditation should or shouldn’t be like. And just resting in awareness. Not doing anything. Enjoying non-doing. Simple. Here. And now. And if mindfulness slips away, noticing that the very moment you notice that, mindfulness is right there. Arising by itself. A natural quality of your mind. Just here. Allowing all experience. Nothing special. Everything special. Everything special in Robert’s garden.
Krista Tippett is an American journalist, author, and entrepreneur. She created and hosts the public radio program and podcast "On Being." She started her career at The New York Times bureau in Bonn in divided Berlin in the '80s, where she established herself as a freelance foreign correspondent. She reported and wrote for The Times, Newsweek, the BBC, the International Herald Tribune, and Die Zeit. In the late '80s, Tippett served as chief aide in Berlin to the U.S. ambassador to West Germany. After her time there, Tippett received a Masters of Divinity from Yale University, which ultimately led her to the the idea for "On Being."
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ACCEPTANCE
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Krista Tippett is an American journalist, author, and entrepreneur. She created and hosts the public radio program and podcast "On Being." She started her career at The New York Times bureau in Bonn in divided Berlin in the '80s, where she established herself as a freelance foreign correspondent. She reported and wrote for The Times, Newsweek, the BBC, the International Herald Tribune, and Die Zeit. In the late '80s, Tippett served as chief aide in Berlin to the U.S. ambassador to West Germany. After her time there, Tippett received a Masters of Divinity from Yale University, which ultimately led her to the the idea for "On Being."
Episode Transcript
I let go of my plan — and found myself
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CLARITY
Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being," talks about the time she took a break from the intensity of life and just stopped to check in with herself – with deeply unexpected results.
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Krista Tippett’s early years aren't what you’d expect knowing who she is today. As a journalist and political aide in divided Berlin in the '80s, Krista Tippett led a life of importance, where she was surrounded by power, where every decision mattered. But when a window opened to step away from that heady life, she found a new space – and time to ask herself what really, truly mattered. She shares her story to remind us how we can find meaning in unexpected places.
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Arianna Huffington
PRESENCE
Krista Tippett
"Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here?"
From the closing meditation
KRISTA TIPPETT
Life and love and the moment
Arianna Huffington
ACCEPTANCE
About Krista Tippett
KRISTA TIPPETT: Looking back, if I could change something, I wish I’d been kinder to myself all along. A year or so ago, I was telling someone this story of my 20s and they said: “How did you get to be so brave?” And I realized I’d never given myself any credit for being brave. I was always second guessing myself or planning what I had to do next. I didn’t give myself credit for how far I’d come and all the experiences I’d had. And I think it was brave. And I need to honor the bravery in myself so I can honor it in others. This bravery is not about being fearless, because I wasn’t fearless. But in walking with the fear – and through it when everything I thought I knew turned out to be flimsy and questionable. And as I walked through it all, there was revelation, and there was confusion, and there was discovery. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Where for you, is the most beautiful place in the world? For Krista Tippett it’s a Spanish Island village in the Mediterranean Sea. Krista Tippett is a journalist, former diplomat, and the long-time host of “On Being”. Today, she shares a story of when she took a break from the intensity of her life and just stopped to check in with herself. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with brief mindfulness prompts from me. I’m Rohan, your guide on this episode of Meditative Story. Let’s take a moment to check in, to listen to ourselves. Just letting your inner life be what it is in this moment, and knowing it just as it is. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. TIPPETT: I spent most of my 20s in divided cold war in Berlin. It was the 1980’s. I was a thoroughly political person. I went there as a New York Times stringer, but for my last year and a half I was chief aide in West Berlin to the US ambassador to West Germany; a nuclear arms expert, a Reagan appointee. I'm sitting around tables with people who move thousands of missiles around on a map of Europe as though it were a gameboard. Arms experts and foreign policy specialists, and people who have the ears of world leaders and who are defining policy around these weapons of mass destruction. I’m very close to genuine power and I’m aware of it in this room. It’s kind of incomprehensible. There's an exhilaration to it, and there's a seductiveness to it – and there's an emptiness to it at the same time. It's very exciting when I first walk into the room, but then the longer I stay, at some level, I am profoundly bored by all of this. I don’t think this is how I should feel. On the other side of the wall, in East Berlin, I travel to visit beloved friends in their apartment on the Chausseestrasse, a legendary street in Berlin’s history. They live in this apartment building where a famous dissident had lived. It has the history of East Germany in it and then it also wears a history of vanished Germanies. It feels ancient and a bit tumbledown in this chapter, forty years into communism. My friends are artists. And the apartment is crowded and overflowing with half-finished paintings and musical instruments, and the world of their daughters – and just full of life and chaos. It’s warm and alive and everything in here matters. Everything we talk about really matters: friendships and words, food and pleasure, and whatever joy you can extract together. In the living room there’s a life sized bust of a mutual friend of ours, a poet who became so uncomfortable to the government that they banished him across the Wall. He’s twenty minutes away from, but they believe, and I believe, that none of us will ever see him again. So there’s grief in this apartment too, and longing, and love. It makes me realize that I’ve come to the end of what I can get out of my work in West Berlin. I long to get away and think all of this through: politics and its extremes and its limits. I don’t actually have space in my life literally or even contemplatively. On the one hand, my life here is full of ideas, but on the other hand it isn’t full of a depth of thoughtfulness. I know I’ve had an incredible experience here, but it’s time for me to move on. GUNATILLAKE: Do you ever feel like you don't have space? Perhaps you're in a phase of your life where that's true right now. If it helps, take a moment to feel your feet on the ground, open out your chest. Relief is available in every moment when we remember to turn to it. TIPPETT: It’s the summer of 1988, the year before the Wall comes down. No one can fathom that. And as desperate as I am to step away to make sense, I think I have to do something that sounds impressive. I give myself a four to five month stretch before I plan to head back to D.C. and more politics in the US. And I set off to write a novel. I decide to go to the most beautiful place I've ever been in the world, this little village on Majorca called Deia. It’s not overrun by tourists. It’s a really eccentric, hard to get to, artists colony with a lot of expatriates. I found it through a journalist friend and fell in love with it. It’s so lush, and fragrant. There’s so much color, so many flowers. You're crunching almonds under your feet as you walk around. The beach is a mile’s hike, no road goes there, and it’s amazing. In my memory the journalist’s house is kind of like a castle and I have this romantic vision of going there to settle into myself and be creative and reflect. “I'm going to write my novel here.” But then shortly before I’m to arrive, the very charismatic journalist dies suddenly, of a heart attack. His widow offers to find me another place to live, and she does – but my idyllic vision is shattered. I had the perfect plan and now it’s coming apart. It all feels doomed and I feel very alone and adrift. But she connects me with this man named Robert who has a room in his house for rent. He’s an English accountant who retired to Deia to tend his garden and restore rare books. I arrive and take a taxi to Robert’s house. It all feels very disorienting. I have the directions for where I’m supposed to go but it’s just a spot on the road. There’s no driveway or mailbox. The car stops and Robert is there to meet me. He appears to me this first time, I meet him as a grizzled man. He looks bedraggled and a little bit unsafe. He's missing a tooth or two and he has berry juice stains on his chin and his clothes. And there’s not exactly a path to his house; we kind of fight our way down a hill beneath the road through the brush. And I think, “Who is this person? Where I am I? What have I done?” We finally reach the house and it’s so simple, but really so smart and sturdy. Nothing fancy but elegant. Amazing really. There’s a nobility to it, and a peacefulness to it. It’s just falling off the side of a mountain. I don’t actually know how it stays attached to the Earth. The house is just an add-on to the garden, which is wild and magical. Robert sleeps in a hammock on the porch outside his bedroom every night. And I stay in a very simple room at the other side of the house. Everything is stone. Nothing fancy, but it’s perfect. I love it. I have a nice bed, and a little desk, and a tiny window. My view of the mountains is like a postcard and it is exquisite. The minute I walk in, the very first time, I think to myself, “I’m going to be really happy in this room.” And I am. GUNATILLAKE: Can you catch the fragrance of the flowers in the garden? The mountains and their majesty keeping everything in perspective. Take it in for a moment. Let go. TIPPETT: In Deia, I realize how exhausted I am and I how I hadn't been letting myself feel that. This stranger, Robert, in his mid 70s, nurses me back to health. I didn’t know I needed somebody to do that for me. He bakes bread from scratch every day and he makes everything out of his garden, these incredible salads where every ingredient is plucked straight from the ground. And there’s always a little dirt left in. He recommends books I’ve never read and gives me a cassette tape of Beethoven's late quartets. It becomes the soundtrack of my summer. I write all day, every day, on a schedule, but at lunchtime and in the evening I sit in the garden looking at the mountain and listening to this music. I get quiet for the first time in about 10 years. I start to pray, without calling it that at first. It takes me a while to figure out, but eventually I realize that sitting in this garden is actually the whole point of being here. This place isn’t on any of the maps that I'd been dealing with in Berlin. But it’s real, and it’s solid, and it matters. People are creating lives here that are as significant as those sitting around a conference table. And it’s a relief, because I think part of the reason I wasn’t able to imagine life beyond that career is that it felt like, if I could do that, which was so important, then how could I walk away from it? Sitting here, I remember that the world is complex and strange and that there's importance all over the place, different forms of importance. Coming out of that, getting quiet, I begin to open up to my inner life again. I ask the questions I need to ask about that world of high policy and why it’s wrong for me. It scares me to imagine the future differently, but I like myself so much more and I like myself in my body so much better sitting in this garden. It’s not about power in that sense. Being here leads me onto this whole other way forward. It leads me to what I do now. When I was in Berlin, it was all very exciting. Diplomatic dinner parties. Adventures half-way across the world. But also long, long days of work. It was very intense. My work absolutely bled into my life. There was no separation and absolutely no value placed on the rest of my life – or in ever getting away. What’s so striking to me now when I look back is how completely lacking in self awareness I was. How, in that life I was leading, it would have felt nonsensical to question it. Wearing myself into exhaustion was inevitable. I was so focused on accomplishment. Now I’m amidst the incredible beauty of the natural world in Deia, with this completely unexpected person in my life, and his generosity and kindness. The power of that. It’s an experience of hospitality. A human presence that has no interest in, ambition for, or goals of impressing. It creates this space for me that I hadn't been in, that maybe I'd never let myself be in. This is my turning point. I don't think I would have walked the direction I walked later if it weren’t for the time I spent in Robert’s garden. I wasn't expecting it and I wasn't looking for it. GUNATILLAKE: What would it take for you to do something unexpected? How do we find the courage to do the things we really need to do? It’s always worth being in silence, asking yourself that question and listening closely to the result. Maybe you can do that later today? TIPPETT: And there was something in that experience that flowed into everything I’ve done since. I wanted to make that possibility of reflection and restoration and life-giving questioning both more a part of my life but also more visible to others, more accessible. I think I had been asking this question all along: What do I want to do with my life? What kind of power do I care about exercising? What do I want to manifest in the world? Looking back, if I could change something, I wish I’d been kinder to myself all along. A year or so ago, I was telling someone this story of my 20s and they said: “How did you get to be so brave?” And I realized I’d never given myself any credit for being brave. I was always second guessing myself or planning what I had to do next. I didn’t give myself credit for how far I’d come and all the experiences I’d had. And I think it was brave. And I need to honor the bravery in myself so I can honor it in others. This bravery is not about being fearless, because I wasn’t fearless. But in walking with the fear – and through it, when everything I thought I knew turned out to be flimsy and questionable. And as I walked through it all, there was revelation, and there was confusion, and there was discovery. Now I see that I was on an adventure, all along. I think the thing that I did right was that I kept directing that adventure in generative ways. I wish I had been able to be a little bit more pleased and relax a little bit more into it and just enjoy it when it was fun, to take even more pleasure in the good days and the excitement of the questions and the excitement of discovery. I had stumbled on this strange mystery and reality that the only real power that sustains us we find inside ourselves – and in the care and company of others. GUNATILLAKE: What inspires me about Krista’s story is her ability to simply stop, which of course is not simple at all. Coming from the intensity of her time in Berlin to the quiet of Robert’s Mallorcan garden, she still held onto the idea of writing her novel. But that plan soon vanishes and Krista truly stops trying to achieve, lets go, and opens up. The same can happen in meditation. Even though it’s most associated with relaxation and letting go, many people still bring the mindset of achievement and goals to their practice. And while that can take you some way, there comes a point when you have to let go of all that. There even comes a time when you have to let go of the idea of a meditation technique. And that’s what we’re going to do today. No technique. Just meditation. No technique. Just mindful awareness. That’s what this meditation is all about. Pure, simple meditation practice. And just taking a short while to settle yourself in for it. Closing the eyes if it’s safe to do so. Relaxing the eyes if you’d rather have them open. Letting your back be upright. Your head sitting elegantly upon your neck. Letting the belly be relaxed. The belly soft and fluid. Committing yourself to this short period of meditation. Enjoying the luxury of time dedicated to mindfulness. And in this meditation we’ll drop technique, drop the need to do anything in particular, and just be here. Be where you are. Aware, alert, and alive. Nothing to do but be here and to be aware. Just here. Knowing what is happening while it is happening. Dropping all ideas of what meditation should be like, and just being present. And knowing what that’s like. Not making anything more important than anything else. Just here. And letting mindfulness just do its job. Letting everything be known. If you feel your mind has wandered away, remember that because we’re not looking at anything in particular, there’s nothing for it to wander away from. Just wakefulness. And what is known by that wakefulness. If you feel your mind has wandered away again, and then you remember you’re meditating, noticing that in that very moment there is mindfulness. Mindfulness re-establishing itself. Without you having to do anything. All you have to do is be here. Doing nothing. Alert and aware. Everything known. Nothing left out. Knowing what is happening as it happens, without judgement. And if judgement arises, allowing that, knowing that. However your body is. Simple. Relaxed. Open. Aware. Just here. Not doing anything. Just here. Not chasing after experience. Just here. Leaving everything alone. And if thoughts arise, no need to go out to them and get caught up. No need to give them any more fuel. Just resting. And letting everything happen. Just being aware, just watching, whatever there is to be watched. Enjoying the stillness of just being here. Enjoying whatever silence there might be. And when there’s noise, knowing that too and letting it be here. Celebrating the fact that you have awareness at all. And letting it be free. Just here. Upright. Relaxed. And alert. Dropping all techniques. Dropping all notions of what meditation should or shouldn’t be like. And just resting in awareness. Not doing anything. Enjoying non-doing. Simple. Here. And now. And if mindfulness slips away, noticing that the very moment you notice that, mindfulness is right there. Arising by itself. A natural quality of your mind. Just here. Allowing all experience. Nothing special. Everything special. Everything special in Robert’s garden.
KRISTA'S MEDITATIVE STORY
PRESENCE
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"What inspires me about Krista’s story is her ability to simply stop, which of course is not simple at all. When Krista's plan vanishes, she truly stops trying to achieve, lets go, and opens up. The same can happen in meditation. Even though it’s most associated with relaxation and letting go, many people still bring the mindset of achievement and goals to their practice. And while that can take you some way, there comes a point when you have to let go of all that. There even comes a time when you have to let go of the idea of a meditation technique."
About Krista Tippett
From the closing meditation
Krista Tippett
Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being," talks about the time she took a break from the intensity of life and just stopped to check in with herself – with deeply unexpected results.
CLARITY
Listen
Krista Tippett’s early years aren't what you’d expect knowing who she is today. As a journalist and political aide in divided Berlin in the '80s, Krista Tippett led a life of importance, where she was surrounded by power, where every decision mattered. But when a window opened to step away from that heady life, she found a new space – and time to ask herself what really, truly mattered. She shares her story to remind us how we can find meaning in unexpected places.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
KRISTA'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
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Krista Tippett
I let go of my plan — and found myself
Life and love and the moment
Episode Transcript
"Fighting can help you find out who you are; the ring a place of real vulnerability; your only weapons, your only allies: your body, your training, and your instincts. Meditation is also a space where we become exposed. Willingly. Letting our physical being, our thoughts, our habits, the contents of our minds be revealed."
About Thomas Page McBee
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Thomas Page McBee
From the closing meditation
SIGN UP
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Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
TRANSFORMATION
"Whether you’re just about to host a show on live TV, or chase your child in a game of tag, you need to be present – because whether it’s an audience of millions or just of one, they’ll know if you’re not really there. So right now in this moment, what can you do to really be here?"
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE: I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: The boxing ring may seem like the last place to find calmness and compassion. However it’s precisely there where today’s Meditative Story takes us. Thomas Page McBee is a transgender writer who found answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting, and along the way discovered what happens when you stop trying to win. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. There’s a real drama, a real intensity to those moments before a boxing match, isn’t there? The fighters waiting for their names to be called. Waiting. Ready. Hyped. Notice the level of energy in your body, whatever it is. Any areas of vibration, areas of stillness. Heat and cool. Dropping any thoughts of elsewhere and trusting our instincts and our abilities. Alert, here, ready to go. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MCBEE: To ground myself in this moment, I bite down hard on my mouth guard. Then, when the roving spotlight finds me, I make my way down the aisle toward the ring – at the heart of the most storied sporting venue on Earth. This is Madison Square Garden – and I’m the first trans man to ever fight in it. An amateur in every sense of the word. “Thomas McBEAST McBee,” the announcer says. I swing myself between the ropes, and hop up and down on the soft mat, my gloved hands in the air. The blurry crowd cheers, amused. I am not a boxer, not really. I’m a 34-year-old writer. Last summer, when I pitched my editor a story about me learning how to fight, it’s because I want to box in order to unpack the vexed relationship between masculinity and violence. I’d only been a man for all the world for four years, but my experience with male violence has been lifelong. My worst fear is that I’m destined to be as toxic as the abusive man who raised me. This isn’t just about boxing. This is about looking my worst fears in the face. For five months, I spend every spare minute training in a dank basement gym near Wall Street, soundtracked by hip-hop and the thwack of gloves hitting bags and faces. What I find there is surprising. As I jump rope and hit heavy bags and learn the language of boxing, I discover a beautiful ballet beneath the posturing. There’s an intimacy in the gym that exposes fighters to their vulnerabilities as much as their strengths. I get to know myself in those hours of relentless discipline, and I get to know the other men too. I learn that I’ve got a good chin, which means I can take a punch and shake it off. “You’ve got a lot of heart,” a grizzled old fighter tells me. It’s boxing’s biggest compliment. For the first time, I can see it. These men reflect me back to myself. They see me at my most scared, and they never stop believing in me. Here they are now, Stephen, Kenny and Ed, gathering ringside to watch. As I extend a glove toward them, they holler encouragement my way. Then I turn away from them, and bring my focus back into the ring. My opponent, Eric, enters to his fight song. My coach, Danny, steps up into the ring, and puts his face close to mine. Everything else falls away. We lock eyes as Danny gives me water, tightens my head gear, and checks the laces on my gloves. “You got this, Tommy,” he says. His voice is all I can hear, and then he’s gone, retreating back behind the ropes. I size up my opponent, who’s squat and thick. He walloped me in our qualifying spar a couple of months ago, and I know he thinks that I’ll be easily defeated. The bell rings and I advance toward him, squeezing the rough innards of my gloves, narrowing my focus in an animal way. I know there’s cheering, but exterior sound is sucked out of the ring. I hear nothing in the vacuum but my heartbeat, my breath, the squeak of our shoes. I see nothing but his eyes over his gloves. GUNATILLAKE: Can you imagine being there, looking through Thomas's eyes? See his opponent, the movement of his feet dancing, the color of his gloves. Notice the four rows of ropes and the posts making up the ring around you, notice the blur of the crowd behind them. MCBEE: In the first round, I channel my aggression, keeping it hot but not letting it overtake me. I register the occasional cheer of the crowd, but the sound mostly hangs on the periphery of my narrowed senses. I see the defeated slump of my opponent’s shoulders. The ref gives him a standing eight count. The cheers pour back in. I raise my hands in the air and dance around the ring, welcoming this moment in the sun, even if it is at Eric’s expense. I’d spent my whole life afraid of men. As I circle Eric, the tang of our sweat thick and twinned, I realize in that moment – that moment when I’m winning – that all I want is to see that I have nothing to fear. I’ve taught my body exactly how to fight back. Even as I charge him, I feel a surge of kindness toward him. I can feel myself letting go of the need to win. I can see, in the way he squares his shoulders and takes wilder and wilder shots, that the outcome that no longer matters to me, means the world to him. His pride is wounded and I realize that, no matter what happens, mine can’t be. I don’t stake my masculinity on this fight. My gender has nothing to do with winning. My masculinity is my own. GUNATILLAKE: Can you sense the freedom? The freedom that Thomas feels that whatever happens ultimately won’t affect his sense of himself. Where do you sense that feeling of letting go in your body? Let go. MCBEE: At the bell, I return to my corner, and sound floods back in. Danny makes me raise my hands in the air. “That was fucking perfect,” he marvels. The guys ringside jump up and down. The bell rings again, round two. The crowd, sensing a comeback, cheers wildly. In their eyes, Eric’s the underdog. I’m the villain. He’s newly energized. I watch him re-inflate, find his power, and it’s oddly beautiful. To win, I have to find a way to hate him, and I can’t. Boxing is karmic that way. I had my moment. Now it’s his. The crowd seeps back in, calling his name. I see a smile curl his mouth. He’s leaning in for the win. But I can’t summon the same dark impulse, and I’m at peace with that. I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. I retreat to my corner when the bell rings, and try to pay attention to Danny, who’s talking in a steady stream boxing clichés: Don’t gas out, get in and out, bunches of punches. But his words are less comforting than his voice, a tether as he wipes my face, and takes care of me. I take in the crowd again, their faces a drunken, bloodthirsty blur. I want a burger. I want to hug my girlfriend. I want to be gentle with myself. I’m alive. I’m alive. Danny calls my name and brings me back: “Tommy!” I look back at him and smile. He hits me lightly on the top of my head. It’s round three. The last round is a wheeling, spinning, spangle of color and sound. I hear the crowd again, shouting: “E-ric, E-ric, E-ric.” It’s a comeback story for them, I can see that – and the story isn’t mine. But we’re in this together, Eric and I, bonded. As we run down the last two minutes, exhausted, our headgear askew, I love him, I really do. As the last bell rings, I raise my hands high in the air and walk back toward my corner. For the first time since I can remember, my future feels expansive and bright. We remove our gloves and meet in the center of the ring, both of us slick with sweat. The ref stands between us, holding both of our hands, and I keep my other one in the air even as they announce that Eric’s won. GUNATILLAKE: What posture are you in right now? As the two fighters raise their arms in victory, what quality does your posture symbolize? Can you feel a connection with the people and space around you, just as Thomas did? MCBEE: They say that you find out who you are in the ring, when you’re stripped of pretense and exposed, with only your body and your instincts to define you. I think that’s true. Fighting is a natural response to threat, and we’re all capable of standing up for ourselves when it counts. Winning, however, is more subjective than it might appear. A fighter fights himself, as my coach always says. I fought my fears. As they call Eric’s name, I turn toward him, and hug him tight. I’m so happy for him. “I didn’t win,” I think to myself, as I walk back to my corner. But I won. GUNATILLAKE: Boxing and meditation are perhaps not as different from each other as you might have thought before hearing Thomas’ story. Thomas speaks rather beautifully about how fighting can help you find out who you are, the ring a place of real vulnerability, your only weapons, your only allies, your body, your training and your instincts. Meditation is also a space where we become exposed. Willingly. Letting our physical being, our thoughts, our habits, the contents of our minds be revealed. And it’s not always pretty. While the popular idea is that meditation is all relaxation and bliss, rainbows and fluffy bunnies, to be honest, most of the time it’s anything but. It can sometimes be a real struggle. Physical discomfort. Negative thoughts. Patterns of mind that perhaps we once suppressed, rising back into our awareness. But it’s ok. With time, and with skill, like Thomas we learn when we need to advance, and when to drop back. Like Thomas, we learn to dance. So let’s meditate. Let’s dance. Eyes open or eyes closed, it’s up to you. Whichever makes most sense, and makes you most safe. Tuning into breathing. Whether it’s in the belly, the chest, or elsewhere, just become aware of your breathing. If it helps, you can put your hand on your belly for a stronger connection. Breathing. Your body just doing it by itself. Ok. Now notice where you are aware of some tension or agitation in the body. Whether it’s been a long day already or if you’ve only just got up, you’ll most likely have some kind of tightness or discomfort along the front of the body: the chest, the stomach, the neck, the jaw. Or along the back of the body: the shoulders, the upper back, the lower back. Drop the breath and instead move to the area of discomfort that is most calling for your attention right now. Again, only doing this if it feels safe to do.For me right now, it’s a sensation of real tension and uncomfortable heat in my shoulders. What is it for you? With our attention, our awareness here on this difficult sensation, can you notice how you’re reacting to the sensation? Are you pushing it away? Are you wishing it wasn’t here? Are you fighting it? It was such a beautiful moment in Thomas’s story when – right in the middle of the fight – he dropped the need to win. He continued to fight but he did so with love for his opponent and his victory was assured. Inspired by Thomas, let’s do the same. While still feeling the intensity of whatever physical discomfort most stands out for us right now, can we drop the struggle? Still feeling it in all its detail, but letting it be there, not pushing it away. Being with the difficult, not ignoring it. Loving it and all its glory, not fighting it. There are two general approaches one can take in meditation. The first is to place our mind somewhere lovely, and let ourselves be nourished and refreshed by the pleasure – however gentle – that brings. That’s a wonderful way to do meditation and at the right time, just what we need. But it’s not transformative, since the inevitable difficulties of life are still around, just not being given attention. So the other approach is to look directly at the difficult. To bring it into our awareness, to know it, to learn from it – and yes, even to love it. It’s the harder road. But as Thomas showed us in his story, it’s the road where the greatest victories are won. Be well.
THOMAS'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Life and love and the moment
TRANSFORMATION
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
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Life and love and the moment
DAN HARRIS
THOMAS'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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CLARITY
Thomas Page McBee is the author of the Lambda award-winning memoir Man Alive. His second book, Amateur, a reported memoir about learning how to box in order to understand masculinity’s tie to violence, was named a best book of 2018 by many publications. McBee was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden, a “masculinity expert” for VICE, and the author of the columns “Self-Made Man” for the Rumpus, “The American Man” for Pacific Standard, and “Amateur” for Condé Nast's Them. His current column, Boys to Men, features honest conversations about masculinity for Teen Vogue. A former senior editor at Quartz, his essays and reportage have appeared in the New York Times, Playboy, Glamour, Out, The Cut, and more. Learn more about Thomas Page McBee here.
From the closing meditation
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE: I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: The boxing ring may seem like the last place to find calmness and compassion. However it’s precisely there where today’s Meditative Story takes us. Thomas Page McBee is a transgender writer who found answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting, and along the way discovered what happens when you stop trying to win. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you recharge at any moment of the day. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide for Meditative Story. There’s a real drama, a real intensity to those moments before a boxing match, isn’t there? The fighters waiting for their names to be called. Waiting. Ready. Hyped. Notice the level of energy in your body, whatever it is. Any areas of vibration, areas of stillness. Heat and cool. Dropping any thoughts of elsewhere and trusting our instincts and our abilities. Alert, here, ready to go. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MCBEE: To ground myself in this moment, I bite down hard on my mouth guard. Then, when the roving spotlight finds me, I make my way down the aisle toward the ring – at the heart of the most storied sporting venue on Earth. This is Madison Square Garden – and I’m the first trans man to ever fight in it. An amateur in every sense of the word. “Thomas McBEAST McBee,” the announcer says. I swing myself between the ropes, and hop up and down on the soft mat, my gloved hands in the air. The blurry crowd cheers, amused. I am not a boxer, not really. I’m a 34-year-old writer. Last summer, when I pitched my editor a story about me learning how to fight, it’s because I want to box in order to unpack the vexed relationship between masculinity and violence. I’d only been a man for all the world for four years, but my experience with male violence has been lifelong. My worst fear is that I’m destined to be as toxic as the abusive man who raised me. This isn’t just about boxing. This is about looking my worst fears in the face. For five months, I spend every spare minute training in a dank basement gym near Wall Street, soundtracked by hip-hop and the thwack of gloves hitting bags and faces. What I find there is surprising. As I jump rope and hit heavy bags and learn the language of boxing, I discover a beautiful ballet beneath the posturing. There’s an intimacy in the gym that exposes fighters to their vulnerabilities as much as their strengths. I get to know myself in those hours of relentless discipline, and I get to know the other men too. I learn that I’ve got a good chin, which means I can take a punch and shake it off. “You’ve got a lot of heart,” a grizzled old fighter tells me. It’s boxing’s biggest compliment. For the first time, I can see it. These men reflect me back to myself. They see me at my most scared, and they never stop believing in me. Here they are now, Stephen, Kenny and Ed, gathering ringside to watch. As I extend a glove toward them, they holler encouragement my way. Then I turn away from them, and bring my focus back into the ring. My opponent, Eric, enters to his fight song. My coach, Danny, steps up into the ring, and puts his face close to mine. Everything else falls away. We lock eyes as Danny gives me water, tightens my head gear, and checks the laces on my gloves. “You got this, Tommy,” he says. His voice is all I can hear, and then he’s gone, retreating back behind the ropes. I size up my opponent, who’s squat and thick. He walloped me in our qualifying spar a couple of months ago, and I know he thinks that I’ll be easily defeated. The bell rings and I advance toward him, squeezing the rough innards of my gloves, narrowing my focus in an animal way. I know there’s cheering, but exterior sound is sucked out of the ring. I hear nothing in the vacuum but my heartbeat, my breath, the squeak of our shoes. I see nothing but his eyes over his gloves. GUNATILLAKE: Can you imagine being there, looking through Thomas's eyes? See his opponent, the movement of his feet dancing, the color of his gloves. Notice the four rows of ropes and the posts making up the ring around you, notice the blur of the crowd behind them. MCBEE: In the first round, I channel my aggression, keeping it hot but not letting it overtake me. I register the occasional cheer of the crowd, but the sound mostly hangs on the periphery of my narrowed senses. I see the defeated slump of my opponent’s shoulders. The ref gives him a standing eight count. The cheers pour back in. I raise my hands in the air and dance around the ring, welcoming this moment in the sun, even if it is at Eric’s expense. I’d spent my whole life afraid of men. As I circle Eric, the tang of our sweat thick and twinned, I realize in that moment – that moment when I’m winning – that all I want is to see that I have nothing to fear. I’ve taught my body exactly how to fight back. Even as I charge him, I feel a surge of kindness toward him. I can feel myself letting go of the need to win. I can see, in the way he squares his shoulders and takes wilder and wilder shots, that the outcome that no longer matters to me, means the world to him. His pride is wounded and I realize that, no matter what happens, mine can’t be. I don’t stake my masculinity on this fight. My gender has nothing to do with winning. My masculinity is my own. GUNATILLAKE: Can you sense the freedom? The freedom that Thomas feels that whatever happens ultimately won’t affect his sense of himself. Where do you sense that feeling of letting go in your body? Let go. MCBEE: At the bell, I return to my corner, and sound floods back in. Danny makes me raise my hands in the air. “That was fucking perfect,” he marvels. The guys ringside jump up and down. The bell rings again, round two. The crowd, sensing a comeback, cheers wildly. In their eyes, Eric’s the underdog. I’m the villain. He’s newly energized. I watch him re-inflate, find his power, and it’s oddly beautiful. To win, I have to find a way to hate him, and I can’t. Boxing is karmic that way. I had my moment. Now it’s his. The crowd seeps back in, calling his name. I see a smile curl his mouth. He’s leaning in for the win. But I can’t summon the same dark impulse, and I’m at peace with that. I’m losing now, but I feel weightless, and strangely free. This moment is a gift. I have nothing to prove. I feel shameless. I don’t back down but I also don’t give in to my worst self. Eric gives me the most perfect moment of my life. I retreat to my corner when the bell rings, and try to pay attention to Danny, who’s talking in a steady stream boxing clichés: Don’t gas out, get in and out, bunches of punches. But his words are less comforting than his voice, a tether as he wipes my face, and takes care of me. I take in the crowd again, their faces a drunken, bloodthirsty blur. I want a burger. I want to hug my girlfriend. I want to be gentle with myself. I’m alive. I’m alive. Danny calls my name and brings me back: “Tommy!” I look back at him and smile. He hits me lightly on the top of my head. It’s round three. The last round is a wheeling, spinning, spangle of color and sound. I hear the crowd again, shouting: “E-ric, E-ric, E-ric.” It’s a comeback story for them, I can see that – and the story isn’t mine. But we’re in this together, Eric and I, bonded. As we run down the last two minutes, exhausted, our headgear askew, I love him, I really do. As the last bell rings, I raise my hands high in the air and walk back toward my corner. For the first time since I can remember, my future feels expansive and bright. We remove our gloves and meet in the center of the ring, both of us slick with sweat. The ref stands between us, holding both of our hands, and I keep my other one in the air even as they announce that Eric’s won. GUNATILLAKE: What posture are you in right now? As the two fighters raise their arms in victory, what quality does your posture symbolize? Can you feel a connection with the people and space around you, just as Thomas did? MCBEE: They say that you find out who you are in the ring, when you’re stripped of pretense and exposed, with only your body and your instincts to define you. I think that’s true. Fighting is a natural response to threat, and we’re all capable of standing up for ourselves when it counts. Winning, however, is more subjective than it might appear. A fighter fights himself, as my coach always says. I fought my fears. As they call Eric’s name, I turn toward him, and hug him tight. I’m so happy for him. “I didn’t win,” I think to myself, as I walk back to my corner. But I won. GUNATILLAKE: Boxing and meditation are perhaps not as different from each other as you might have thought before hearing Thomas’ story. Thomas speaks rather beautifully about how fighting can help you find out who you are, the ring a place of real vulnerability, your only weapons, your only allies, your body, your training and your instincts. Meditation is also a space where we become exposed. Willingly. Letting our physical being, our thoughts, our habits, the contents of our minds be revealed. And it’s not always pretty. While the popular idea is that meditation is all relaxation and bliss, rainbows and fluffy bunnies, to be honest, most of the time it’s anything but. It can sometimes be a real struggle. Physical discomfort. Negative thoughts. Patterns of mind that perhaps we once suppressed, rising back into our awareness. But it’s ok. With time, and with skill, like Thomas we learn when we need to advance, and when to drop back. Like Thomas, we learn to dance. So let’s meditate. Let’s dance. Eyes open or eyes closed, it’s up to you. Whichever makes most sense, and makes you most safe. Tuning into breathing. Whether it’s in the belly, the chest, or elsewhere, just become aware of your breathing. If it helps, you can put your hand on your belly for a stronger connection. Breathing. Your body just doing it by itself. Ok. Now notice where you are aware of some tension or agitation in the body. Whether it’s been a long day already or if you’ve only just got up, you’ll most likely have some kind of tightness or discomfort along the front of the body: the chest, the stomach, the neck, the jaw. Or along the back of the body: the shoulders, the upper back, the lower back. Drop the breath and instead move to the area of discomfort that is most calling for your attention right now. Again, only doing this if it feels safe to do.For me right now, it’s a sensation of real tension and uncomfortable heat in my shoulders. What is it for you? With our attention, our awareness here on this difficult sensation, can you notice how you’re reacting to the sensation? Are you pushing it away? Are you wishing it wasn’t here? Are you fighting it? It was such a beautiful moment in Thomas’s story when – right in the middle of the fight – he dropped the need to win. He continued to fight but he did so with love for his opponent and his victory was assured. Inspired by Thomas, let’s do the same. While still feeling the intensity of whatever physical discomfort most stands out for us right now, can we drop the struggle? Still feeling it in all its detail, but letting it be there, not pushing it away. Being with the difficult, not ignoring it. Loving it and all its glory, not fighting it. There are two general approaches one can take in meditation. The first is to place our mind somewhere lovely, and let ourselves be nourished and refreshed by the pleasure – however gentle – that brings. That’s a wonderful way to do meditation and at the right time, just what we need. But it’s not transformative, since the inevitable difficulties of life are still around, just not being given attention. So the other approach is to look directly at the difficult. To bring it into our awareness, to know it, to learn from it – and yes, even to love it. It’s the harder road. But as Thomas showed us in his story, it’s the road where the greatest victories are won. Be well.
CLARITY
Thomas Page McBee
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Episode Transcript
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
Thomas Page McBee is an author and a journalist – and was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden. But that fight, born out of a pitch to editors, wasn't about overpowering an opponent. It was about confronting his own fears – of masculinity, of aggression and inadequacy – and winning.
Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
Arianna Huffington
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Thomas Page McBee is the author of the Lambda award-winning memoir Man Alive. His second book, Amateur, a reported memoir about learning how to box in order to understand masculinity’s tie to violence, was named a best book of 2018 by many publications. McBee was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden, a “masculinity expert” for VICE, and the author of the columns “Self-Made Man” for the Rumpus, “The American Man” for Pacific Standard, and “Amateur” for Condé Nast's Them. His current column, Boys to Men, features honest conversations about masculinity for Teen Vogue. A former senior editor at Quartz, his essays and reportage have appeared in the New York Times, Playboy, Glamour, Out, The Cut, and more. Learn more about Thomas Page McBee here.
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Author and journalist Thomas Page McBee takes us into the boxing ring at Madison Square Garden, where he finds answers to some of his most profound questions through fighting – and along the way discovers what happens when you stop trying to win.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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Episode Transcript
About Thomas Page McBee
PRESENCE
Arianna Huffington
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
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Thomas Page McBee is an author and a journalist – and was the first transgender man to box in Madison Square Garden. But that fight, born out of a pitch to editors, wasn't about overpowering an opponent. It was about confronting his own fears – of masculinity, of aggression and inadequacy – and winning.
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