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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.
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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.
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Listen to the trailer
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Making humanity appear, magically
OPENNESS
How do you build rapport with another person quickly? How do you bond? Author A.J. Jacobs shares a Meditative Story about the day he found himself on "The Oprah Winfrey Show," and how courage to take a risk might just be the best way to connect with someone else.
Josh Radnor is an actor, filmmaker, and musician. But that's now. Back when he was an unsure sixteen-year-old growing up in Ohio, just discovering his love of acting, he never believed it could be his life. That is until a guidance counselor asked him to promise to be true to himself.
Perspective
Listen
Listen
My funny, feisty, thoughtful brave girl
>
AWARENESS
Author and poet Stephen Kuusisto, who is blind, hears life expressed in sound, the weird and wonderful chance music of everyday life. And he's able to find meaning, big and small, in it all.
MOJ MAHDARA
One summer night Paola Antonelli sets sail off the coast of Sardinia – while her mind wanders to the rockier questions: How will she make the right choice for her future? The answer, she finds, is right in front of her.
ACCEPTANCE
OPENNESS
DeRay Mckesson believes in magic – the magic that is being human and being part of a community. He tells a story about running for class president, and turning his college campus into a community. Every day, he fights for a world he believes is possible, a world where people build special connections and relationships, and find personal meaning in the company of others. He suggests: Let's find the magic in today.
ATTENTION
ACCEPTANCE
Openness
Learning to see what is in front of me
Listen
SUBSCRIBE
SIGN UP
Writer, artist and Zen priest Zenju Earthlyn Manuel tells a story from her girlhood, a road trip from LA to Louisiana in 1957. While 5-year-old Zenju sits in the back seat dreaming, her parents navigate an altogether different landscape.
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.
A young Jay Shetty taking an art class is inspired by a perceptive teacher to dig deeper into the layers of his work – and in so doing reveals the layers inside himself, and inside us all.
DeRay Mckesson believes in magic – the magic that is being human and being part of a community. He tells a story about running for class president, and turning his college campus into a community. Every day, he fights for a world he believes is possible, a world where people build special connections and relationships, and find personal meaning in the company of others. He suggests: Let's find the magic in today.
When NPR host Peter Sagal found himself with two free weeks – and in need of a healthy distraction – he decided to jump on his bike for a long solo trip out west. Though he had a destination in mind, what he found was not a way out, but a way into himself.
Standing in my own truth
About Meditative Story
Acting as if you are bold
PRESENCE
CLARITY
The art class
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.
A young Jay Shetty taking an art class is inspired by a perceptive teacher to dig deeper into the layers of his work – and in so doing reveals the layers inside himself, and inside us all.
Riding waves
There is power in finding inspiration and strength in generational wisdom, even in the face of other familial pressure. CEO Moj Mahdara found that wisdom in her grandmothers, at a time when she was trying to reveal her true identity. Their words helped Moj author her own story.
change
MICHELLE THALLER
DANNY MEYER
Your email
Surrendering my old identity — and finding myself
Listen
Life and love and the moment
connection
How do you find joy in your life? For entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and author Reid Hoffman, it’s through the act of genuine, honest, and intimate conversations with friends. He connects with people who share not necessarily his interests but his curiosity, and his dedication to asking big questions. It is in asking the big questions, in discussing the answers, that Reid learns and grows – and begins to discover the meaning of his life.
Listen
How do you rebuild a life after it very nearly ends? Entrepreneur Keith Yamashita tells his own story of how he learned to live again after a devastating stroke, to nourish himself and the world, and to take each moment as it comes.
The perfect photograph I never took
How do you build rapport with another person quickly? How do you bond? Author A.J. Jacobs shares a Meditative Story about the day he found himself on "The Oprah Winfrey Show," and how courage to take a risk might just be the best way to connect with someone else.
Connection
connection
SUBSCRIBE
DISCOVERY
Listen
IDENTITY
CREATIVITY
Clarity
DISCOVERY
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
DANNY MEYER
DAN HARRIS
Allowing sound to reveal life's wonder
PICO IYER
centeredness
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
Starting the story of my life again
Clarity
INSPIRATION
ATTENTION
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.
As an actor and a new mom, Catherine Reitman felt pulled between two competing identities. To capture her frustration, her sadness, her truth, she wrote it all down. In sharing her darkness, she found a way to turn a light on for someone else.
MICHELLE THALLER
INSPIRATION
Building a bond with my son
Openness
To truly see what is right in front us requires the practice of looking, of careful and sustained attention — without expectation or judgment. Join author and essayist Siri Hustvedt on an hours-long trip to the museum spent in front of just one painting. And discover more than just what’s on the canvas.
SUBSCRIBE
acceptance
SIGN UP
Clarity
PRESENCE
Life and love and the moment
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.
Listen
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
PICO IYER
Building a bond with my son
Surrendering my old identity — and finding myself
Game designer and twin Jane McGonigal on the notion of similarity and divergence, of sharing not only DNA but talents, interests, personality – and where these likenesses diverge.
Listen
Read more >
Finding my own reflection
Acting as if you are bold
Listen
CLARITY
Clarity
Your email
Listen
How do you rebuild a life after it very nearly ends? Entrepreneur Keith Yamashita tells his own story of how he learned to live again after a devastating stroke, to nourish himself and the world, and to take each moment as it comes.
Restaurateur Danny Meyer takes us back to where it all began for him: a family trip to Europe and a simple plate of pasta. That memorable meal sparked a lifetime practice of discovery that continues to feed his creativity and his soul.
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.
PRESENCE
Listen
Allowing sound to reveal life’s wonder
Finding my own reflection
ACCEPTANCE
To visualize... and then make it so
MICHELLE THALLER
Family
Listen
Navigating life in my own skin
LARRY JACKSON
Finding a way in
Chimps in the house, elephants at his door. Forrest Galante grows up in Zimbabwe, steeped in the natural world, but a sudden move to the U.S. puts him in foreign territory, where he has to rely on completely new skills to survive.
ACCEPTANCE
CLARITY
Psychologist and author Susan David invites us into the sad days after she loses her father as a child – and the kind teacher who helped her carve out space to feel her grief and sadness honestly. It's a lesson she takes into her own journey as a parent.
Psychologist and author Susan David invites us into the sad days after she loses her father as a child – and the kind teacher who helped her carve out space to feel her grief and sadness honestly. It's a lesson she takes into her own journey as a parent.
Making humanity appear, magically
ALL EPISODES
One person can be the vehicle by which somebody else can feel seen and known. This is something that Sinéad Burke sees every day in her classroom. Her achondroplasia teaches her how to turn everything that excludes into something that includes, by finding common ground, by finding a way in. What can you do to build a way in for someone?
How do you find joy in your life? For entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and author Reid Hoffman, it’s through the act of genuine, honest, and intimate conversations with friends. He connects with people who share not necessarily his interests but his curiosity, and his dedication to asking big questions. It's in asking the big questions, in discussing the answers, that Reid learns and grows – and begins to discover the meaning of his life.
Violinist Lindsey Stirling sits by the campfire, mesmerized by the best storyteller she’s ever heard: her dad. In those moments she realizes the ultimate power of storytelling: connection.
I let go of my plan — and found myself
The art class
CLARITY
Listen
connection
Adapting to life's unexpected nature
FORREST GALANTE
Listen
ADAPTING
Listen
Riding waves
PRESENCE
A young Jay Shetty taking an art class is inspired by a perceptive teacher to dig deeper into the layers of his work – and in so doing reveals the layers inside himself, and inside us all.
One summer night Paola Antonelli sets sail off the coast of Sardinia – while her mind wanders to the rockier questions: How will she make the right choice for her future? The answer, she finds, is right in front of her.
Listen
Listen
ACCEPTANCE
ACCEPTANCE
A young Jay Shetty taking an art class is inspired by a perceptive teacher to dig deeper into the layers of his work – and in so doing reveals the layers inside himself, and inside us all.
ADAPTING
Stories my father told me
FORREST GALANTE
PRESENCE
lindsey stirling
One person can be the vehicle by which somebody else can feel seen and known. This is something that Sinéad Burke sees every day in her classroom. Her achondroplasia teaches her how to turn everything that excludes into something that includes, by finding common ground, by finding a way in. What can you do to build a way in for someone?
LINDSEY STIRLING
Adapting to life's unexpected nature
Violinist Lindsey Stirling sits by the campfire, mesmerized by the best storyteller she’s ever heard: her dad. In those moments she realizes the ultimate power of storytelling: connection.
Chimps in the house, elephants at his door. Forrest Galante grows up in Zimbabwe, steeped in the natural world, but a sudden move to the U.S. puts him in foreign territory, where he has to rely on completely new skills to survive.
Read more >
Listen
CLARITY
Listen
CONNECTION
Chimps in the house, elephants at his door. Forrest Galante grows up in Zimbabwe, steeped in the natural world, but a sudden move to the U.S. puts him in foreign territory, where he has to rely on completely new skills to survive.
The art class
Read more >
Creating space to stand in truth
Listen
Listen
The art class
Listen
ACCEPTANCE
Listen
Learning to see what is in front of me
Listen
Stories my father told me
Through friendship, a better version of myself
CONNECTION
Listen
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.
LATEST EPISODES
Listen
Hitting the open road to find my way home
JOHN MOORE
CREATIVITY
Starting the story of my life again
Through friendship, a better version of myself
CREATIVITY
SUBSCRIBE
Author and poet Stephen Kuusisto, who is blind, hears life expressed in sound, the weird and wonderful chance music of everyday life. And he's able to find meaning, big and small, in it all.
Openness
Wonder
While filming one day in the Congo rainforest, legendary photojournalist John Moore pursued the vision of a perfect photograph – a vision that literally brought him to his knees. He shares the magic that can occur when you let go of the desire to control the outcome.
As an actor and a new mom, Catherine Reitman felt pulled between two competing identities. To capture her frustration, her sadness, her truth, she wrote it all down. In sharing her darkness, she found a way to turn a light on for someone else.
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.
To truly see what is right in front us requires the practice of looking, of careful and sustained attention — without expectation or judgment. Join author and essayist Siri Hustvedt on an hours-long trip to the museum spent in front of just one painting. And discover more than just what’s on the canvas.
awareness
To visualize... and then make it so
TRANSFORMATION
ALL EPISODES
Hitting the open road to find my way home
SIGN UP
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
One envelope at a time
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Finding permission to pursue my own dreams
Listen
OPENNESS
Listen
Listen
Finding permission to pursue my own dreams
Connection
acceptance
Finding a way in
HANNAH BRENCHER
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.
Life and love and the moment
LOVE
KRISTA TIPPETT
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Listen
When's the last time you hand-wrote a letter? Author Hannah Brencher shares a simple story about the value of connecting on paper.
Navigating life in my own skin
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.
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
Listen
Listen
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.
LATEST EPISODES
LUCY KALANITHI
Creating space to stand in truth
Listen
Listen
About Meditative Story
ACCEPTANCE
Wonder
ACCEPTANCE
A.J. Jacobs
ACCEPTANCE
TRUST
ZENJU EARTHLYN MANUEL
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.
Listen
CLARITY
CLARITY
Sinéad Burke
CONNECTION
SIRI HUSTVEDT
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
A home that had been waiting for me forever
Listen
Listen
JOSH RADNOR
CLARITY
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
JANE MCGONIGAL
CREATIVITY
Read more >
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
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.
How to find—and feed—your passion
Wonder
Listen
change
SIRI HUSTVEDT
LoVE
KEITH YAMASHITA
Read more >
FOCUS
LARRY JACKSON
Listen
Listen
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.
PRESENCE
Privacy Policy
Listen
CLARITY
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
>
Listen
Your email
LoVE
TRANSFORMATION
A home that had been waiting for me forever
centeredness
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 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.
PRESENCE
awareness
Listen
LARRY JACKSON
SUPPORT
ACCEPTANCE
CLARITY
CLARITY
RENEWAL
Community
CLARITY
CLARITY
Listen
There is power in finding inspiration and strength in generational wisdom, even in the face of other familial pressure. CEO Moj Mahdara found that wisdom in her grandmothers, at a time when she was trying to reveal her true identity. Their words helped Moj author her own story.
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.
Your email
Acceptance
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.
JAY SHETTY
DERAY MCKESSON
PRESENCE
DAN HARRIS
JOY
Clarity
While filming one day in the Congo rainforest, legendary photojournalist John Moore pursued the vision of a perfect photograph – a vision that literally brought him to his knees. He shares the magic that can occur when you let go of the desire to control the outcome.
HUMOR
INSPIRATION
ACCEPTANCE
Listen
SUBSCRIBE
Stories my father told me
ACCEPTANCE
WISDOM
INCLUSION
Restaurateur Danny Meyer takes us back to where it all began for him: a family trip to Europe and a simple plate of pasta. That memorable meal sparked a lifetime practice of discovery that continues to feed his creativity and his soul.
Connection
ACCEPTANCE
PETER SAGAL
Listen
Listen
Listen
STEPHEN KUUSISTO
Standing in my own truth
identity
CONNECTION
CLARITY
A.J. JACOBS
CLARITY
PRESENCE
Openness
Acceptance
PRESENCE
DISCOVERY
ACCEPTANCE
Listen
RENEWAL
Listen
Listen
DeRay Mckesson
INCLUSION
Listen
ACCEPTANCE
Openness
Listen to the trailer
SUPPORT
CLARITY
Listen
HUMOR
CONNECTION
PRESENCE
ACCEPTANCE
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.
CATHERINE REITMAN
Clarity
TRUST
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.
Listen
MOJ MAHDARA
Lindsey Stirling
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
How to find—and feed—your passion
SIGN UP FOR UPDATES
CONNECTION
JOSH RADNOR
To visualize... and then make it so
PRESENCE
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
Inclusion
NPR host Peter Sagal shares the story of a motorcycle trip he took through the middle of America – and how it gave him the space he needed to navigate.
ACCEPTANCE
SUBSCRIBE
LUCY KALANITHI
When's the last time you hand-wrote a letter? Author Hannah Brencher shares a simple story about the value of connecting on paper.
PRESENCE
Listen
Actor, filmmaker, and musician Josh Radnor takes us back to his very first time on stage — and introduces us to someone who gave him the push he needed to be true to himself. Please note that this episode includes language about self harm.
CREATIVITY
IDENTITY
PRESENCE
INSPIRATION
change
Clarity
SUPPORT
SIGN UP FOR UPDATES
LOVE
Arianna Huffington
Game designer and twin Jane McGonigal on the notion of similarity and divergence, of sharing not only DNA but talents, interests, personality – and where these likenesses diverge.
PETER SAGAL
The perfect photograph I never took
KEITH YAMASHITA
PRESENCE
>
CONNECTION
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.
CATHERINE REITMAN
LOVE
REID HOFFMAN
Perspective
CONNECTION
Listen
Writer, artist and Zen priest Zenju Earthlyn Manuel tells a story from her girlhood, a road trip from LA to Louisiana in 1957. While 5-year-old Zenju sits in the back seat dreaming, her parents navigate an altogether different landscape.
Arianna Huffington
KRISTA TIPPETT
Openness
SUBSCRIBE
Listen
Listen
My funny, feisty, thoughtful brave girl
CLARITY
Arianna Huffington
JOHN MOORE
PATIENCE
JANE MCGONIGAL
Listen
SUBSCRIBE
Connection
ACCEPTANCE
ACCEPTANCE
ZENJU EARTHLYN MANUEL
Paola Antonelli
MICHELLE THALLER
FOCUS
>
JOY
One envelope at a time
Susan David
PATIENCE
Perspective
I let go of my plan — and found myself
Listen
SIGN UP
WONDER
HUMOR
JOY
JAY SHETTY
ADAPTING
Read more >
Community
ACCEPTANCE
ACCEPTANCE
Listen
INCLUSION
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
Adapting to life's unexpected nature
Listen
Adapting to life's unexpected nature
Read more >
ACCEPTANCE
CLARITY
LINDSEY STIRLING
PAOLA ANTONELLI
SUSAN DAVID
STEPHEN KUUSISTO
PRESENCE
ACCEPTANCE
CLARITY
SUBSCRIBE
CONNECTION
IDENTITY
Listen
JAY SHETTY
CONNECTION
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.
Listen
Sinéad Burke
REID HOFFMAN
AWareness
ACCEPTANCE
Chimps in the house, elephants at his door. Forrest Galante grows up in Zimbabwe, steeped in the natural world, but a sudden move to the U.S. puts him in foreign territory, where he has to rely on completely new skills to survive.
HANNAH BRENCHER
Clarity
FORREST GALANTE
ENLIGHTENMENT
Clarity
SUPPORT
connection
Listen
PRESENCe
CLARITY
identity
SUPPORT
Listen
family
JOY
PERSPECTIVE
Listen
Read more >
ADAPTING
WISDOM
identity
Violinist Lindsey Stirling sits by the campfire, mesmerized by the best storyteller she’s ever heard: her dad. In those moments she realizes the ultimate power of storytelling: connection.
ACCEPTaNCE
Enlightenment
JAY SHETTY
Read more >
Clarity
CLARITY
AWARENESS
HUMOR
Stories my father told me
Clarity
Listen
CLARITY
Forrest galante
Violinist Lindsey Stirling sits by the campfire, mesmerized by the best storyteller she’s ever heard: her dad. In those moments she realizes the ultimate power of storytelling: connection.
CLARITY
CLARITY
AWARENESS
Your email
About Meditative Story
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.
In each of the 26 episodes that form the first season of Meditative Story:
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
SIGN UP
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.
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:
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
The format invention of 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.
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.
About Meditative Story
Your email
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
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
About Rohan Gunatillake
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
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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
About Rohan Gunatillake
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The Holladay Brothers
Our Music
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
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
The Holladay Brothers
About the Holladay Brothers
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
Our Music
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
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Change can be big or even epic, or it can be much more modest. But powerful all the same.
Sed ut perspiciatis unde omnis iste natus error sit voluptatem accusantium doloremque laudantium, totam rem aperiam, eaque ipsa quae ab illo inventore veritatis et quasi laudantium, totam.
Changing Perspectives
Making a Small Difference
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.
Listen
Sed ut perspiciatis unde omnis iste natus error sit voluptatem accusantium doloremque laudantium, totam rem aperiam, eaque ipsa quae ab illo inventore veritatis et quasi laudantium, totam.
Change can be big or even epic, or it can be much more modest. But powerful all the same.
Practice: seek out a long view -- and let that perspective free you from self-restrictions you feel in that moment
Listen
Sign up for news about Meditative Story, from Thrive and WaitWhat
Growing the Positive
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.
Listen
Sed ut perspiciatis unde omnis iste natus error sit voluptatem accusantium doloremque laudantium, totam rem aperiam, eaque ipsa quae ab illo inventore veritatis et quasi laudantium, totam.
Listen
Listen
Growing the Positive
Combat your natural negativity bias by emphasizing positive qualities. Lean into a pleasant experience and see how your outlook changes.
Combat your natural negativity bias by emphasizing positive qualities. Lean into a pleasant experience and see how your outlook changes.
Listen
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Practice: seek out a long view -- and let that perspective free you from self-restrictions you feel in that moment
SIGN UP
Listen
Listen
Practice: seek out a long view -- and let that perspective free you from self-restrictions you feel in that moment.
Making a Small Difference
Fostering Connection
Change From Within
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Listen
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.
Sed ut perspiciatis unde omnis iste natus error sit voluptatem accusantium doloremque laudantium, totam rem aperiam, eaque ipsa quae ab illo inventore veritatis et quasi laudantium, totam.
Changing Perspectives
Changing Perspectives
Listen
Making a Small Difference
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.
Change From Within
connection
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 KALANITHI
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About Lucy Kalanithi
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Clarity
My funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
LUCY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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.
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connection
From the closing meditation
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.
“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. ”
Listen
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."
Episode Transcript
Lucy Kalanithi
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 KALANITHI
acceptance
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
Episode Transcript
LUCY KALANITHI
connection
From the closing meditation
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My funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl
“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. ”
acceptance
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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About Lucy Kalanithi
Lucy Kalanithi
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My funny, feisty, thoughtful, brave girl
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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."
About Lucy Kalanithi
LUCY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Clarity
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.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
acceptance
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").
“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.”
awareness
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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.
From the closing meditation
Pico Iyer
Episode Transcript
Openness
PICO'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
PICO'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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centeredness
PICO'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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.
Embracing the journey’s adventure without attachment to its outcome.
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Pico iyer
Openness
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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").
About Pico Iyer
Pico iyer
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
awareness
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
“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.
Embracing the journey’s adventure without attachment to its outcome.
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.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
From the closing meditation
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About Pico Iyer
A home that had been waiting for me forever
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
Pico Iyer
“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. ”
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.”
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.
From the closing meditation
A home that had been waiting for me forever
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.
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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A home that had been waiting for me forever
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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About Pico Iyer
Pico Iyer
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Life and love and the moment
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.
Arianna Huffington
Clarity
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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Life and love and the moment
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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 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.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Episode Transcript
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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.
About Arianna Huffington
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
Arianna Huffington
ARianna'S MEDITATIVE STORY
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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.
Listen
From the closing meditation
Openness
“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.”
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.
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."
From the closing meditation
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Openness
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
“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. ”
About Arianna Huffington
Arianna Huffington
Episode Transcript
About Arianna Huffington
“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.”
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
change
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."
Clarity
Arianna Huffington
From the closing meditation
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Arianna Huffington
Openness
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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 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.
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
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ARIANNA'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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Life and love and the moment
Clarity
ARianna'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.
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.
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."
DISCOVERY
About Larry Jackson
LARRY JACKSON
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
“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. ”
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."
From the closing meditation
Episode Transcript
Episode Transcript
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About Larry Jackson
Arianna Huffington
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LARRY JACKSON
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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."
To visualize... and then make it so
Life and love and the moment
"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."
Arianna Huffington
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
CREATIVITY
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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About Larry Jackson
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Larry Jackson
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Life and love and the moment
DISCOVERY
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
LARRY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Larry Jackson
CREATIVITY
Larry Jackson
From the closing meditation
DISCOVERY
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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."
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
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.
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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.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Arianna Huffington
To visualize... and then make it so
To visualize... and then make it so
LARRY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Larry jackson
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.
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.
LARRY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
From the closing meditation
WONDER
MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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Michelle Thaller
About Michelle Thaller
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MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
PERSPECTIVE
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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Life and love and the moment
MICHELLE THALLER
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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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."
WONDER
Arianna Huffington
Life and love and the moment
MICHELLE THALLER
"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."
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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.
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.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
Michelle Thaller
PERSPECTIVE
About Michelle Thaller
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.
Arianna Huffington
Life and love and the moment
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
WONDER
SUBSCRIBE
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.
From the closing meditation
Michelle Thaller
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.
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.
PERSPECTIVE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Episode Transcript
Episode Transcript
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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. ”
About Michelle Thaller
Episode Transcript
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.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
Arianna Huffington
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
CONNECTION
– 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.
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.
MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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MICHELLE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
PERSPECTIVE
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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Life and love and the moment
MICHELLE THALLER
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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dan harris
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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?"
OPENNESS
Arianna Huffington
Life and love and the moment
DAN HARRIS
"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?"
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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: 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.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
Dan Harris
PRESENCE
About Dan Harris
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.
Arianna Huffington
Life and love and the moment
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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.
From the closing meditation
Dan Harris
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.
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.
PRESENCE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Episode Transcript
Episode Transcript
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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. ”
About Michelle Thaller
Episode Transcript
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.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Our tiny meaningful lives in the vast universe
Arianna Huffington
Building a bond with my son
CONNECTION
– 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.
Broadcaster Dan Harris shares a candid look at his attempts to connect more with his son, Alexander, on their first father-son trip.
DAN'S MEDITATIVE STORY
"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."
Episode Transcript
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Thomas Page McBee
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.
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
Arianna Huffington
PRESENCE
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.
Life and love and the moment
PRESENCE
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
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
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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About Thomas Page McBee
Thomas Page McBee
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Life and love and the moment
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.
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From the closing meditation
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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.
"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
THOMAS PAGE MCBEE
THOMAS'S MEDITATIVE STORY
TRANSFORMATION
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TRANSFORMATION
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Episode Transcript
Fighting my fears – and winning in spite of losing
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THOMAS'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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.
DAN HARRIS
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Episode Transcript
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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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.
About Krista Tippett
Arianna Huffington
Krista Tippett
KRISTA'S MEDITATIVE STORY
ACCEPTANCE
PRESENCE
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'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Episode Transcript
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From the closing meditation
I let go of my plan — and found myself
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.
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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From the closing meditation
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.
"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?"
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Krista Tippett
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."
Life and love and the moment
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.
I let go of my plan — and found myself
ACCEPTANCE
"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."
PRESENCE
CLARITY
Life and love and the moment
KRISTA TIPPETT
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
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."
About Krista Tippett
Krista Tippett
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JOHN MOORE: I imagine the splendid scene up in those mountains. Surrounded by lush forest, the gorillas amble out into a clearing and gaze onto the vista. The surrounding hills come in and out of view as a gentle breeze pushes the mist through the trees and dense underbrush. In my mind, the photograph is spectacular. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: As a Special Correspondent for Getty Images, John Moore’s work has taken him all around the world, often to places of great conflict and human drama. Today, we’ll hear John share a story about the pursuit of a photograph that literally brought him to his knees. 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. Some of the prompts may feel really right for you. Others, less so. That’s okay. And now onto the story. John’s experience has an intensity to it, and that may make it a less obvious choice for Meditative Story, but mindfulness doesn’t just mean relaxation. It’s also about vibrancy and aliveness. And now, let go of the need to do anything in particular. Ready to hear John’s story. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MOORE: In 1994, I travel to eastern Congo to photograph hundreds of thousands of Hutu refugees living in sprawling camps. I base myself in the Congolese town of Goma, which straddles the border with Rwanda. My hotel is modest. I stay in a simple one-floor structure. Each room with a mosquito net, hanging above single beds. The rooms are arranged around a common area with worn sofas. The place has been taken over by international journalists, all there to cover the story. I process my film in a bathroom I fashion into a darkroom by covering the window. I mix my chemicals in a contraption known as the “road warrior.” It keeps the developer at an even 100 degrees. Every day, I return covered in a stench from the squalid camps and go into that darkroom. I emerge 20 minutes later smelling of film-developing chemicals, a modest improvement. One day, I photographed a barefoot family, their gray clothes in tatters, as they walked over the black jagged lava, which forms the desolate ground there. They were scouring the area for cooking wood and further reducing wildlife terrain. Beyond them in the distance, smoke rose from the volcanic crater of Mount Nyiragongo, in Virunga National Park. That night, as I finish work I head to the hotel roof. I watch the volcano’s orange glow. It brightens and dims from the bubbling lava below. The park is also the largest habitat for endangered mountain gorillas; it gets me thinking. I know something of these creatures. Like many people, I’ve seen the film “Gorillas in the Mist”. As I gaze at the pulsing orange glow, I think of how beautiful it would be to photograph the gorillas in their natural habitat after my month covering the ravages of war. With the movie in mind, I imagine the splendid scene up in those mountains. Surrounded by lush forest, the gorillas amble out into a clearing and gaze onto the vista. The surrounding hills come in and out of view as a gentle breeze pushes the mist through the trees and dense underbrush. In my mind, the photograph is spectacular. I know as a photojournalist that the strongest pictures are often a combination of preparedness and luck. You can have all of one, but without a little of the other, the image never finds its way into your camera. The next day, I cross the border from Congo into Rwanda. I meet a veteran guide, Jean Bosco, who agrees to take me. It’s his first trip back into the jungle since the military conflict began months before. Together, we climb into a beat-up Land Cruiser, its back seats just a pair of benches that run along the insides of the vehicle. We drive into the foothills, higher and higher, surrounded by beautiful terraced hillsides. After a few hours, we reach the end of the road and the start of a long footpath. The trailhead forms a small clearing where the grass is tall. This time, as we start walking, we go almost immediately into a vertical climb. Dark clouds move in, and I struggle to keep from falling. Rain and wind lash my poncho as I try to keep my gear dry. My cameras, light at the outset, become heavier with every step. GUNATILLAKE: Does it feel like you're carrying a lot of baggage right now? How are your shoulders? Take a moment to roll them, rolling your shoulders back to free up some tension. Perhaps that feels a little lighter. MOORE: After at least three hours of this steep, slippery climb, we meet another local guide, who has just returned from the gorilla habitat. He warns us, sharply: These gorillas are different from the ones on the Congo side. These gorillas have been through war. These gorillas have learned that humans are dangerous. Undeterred, I ask the local guide to take me as close as possible to any gorilla families still in the area. We set out along a wet mountain path. I picture the image I want. As if on cue, the sky briefly clears and the perfect background appears – row upon row of mountains stretched to the horizon, lightly covered in mist. I look up to an adjacent hill and there they are – a family of mountain gorillas striding together along the ridge. It’s a group of four, including two adolescents, a larger female, and a giant silverback male, his high-pitched forehead bobbing along with his casual gait. I ask my guide to take me up so that I can photograph them with my wide lens up close, framed by that incredible view. He arches an eyebrow and shakes his head. “They’re wild again,” he says “and unpredictable.” I look back to the hill and they’re still there. It’s the gorilla photo I imagined while back in Congo. I hand him my camera bag and ask him to wait for me. I start climbing the slope. It doesn’t seem steep at first, but soon I’m crawling up, grasping at vines and roots, trying to keep my camera from slinging into the muck. As the grade becomes steeper, I begin to slip down a step, and then claw my way back, just a bit higher than before. Time slows as the foliage comes loose in my hands. It seems as though I’m crawling in place. I dig the toes of my boots into the hillside and I begin to make headway. By the time I reach the ridge, I’m soaked with sweat, caked in mud. As I stand, I quickly see the situation has changed. The female and children of the family are no longer visible. Standing alone, just 30 yards away, the silverback male remains, waiting for me. He stares at me and I realize that I may have miscalculated. In my disheveled terror, I lower myself into a crouch, as close to the ground as possible. I stare down and begin to clear my throat, making low grunting sounds. This sounds submissive to the gorillas. I have no idea how long I hold that position cowering atop that mountain, staring at the ground before me, but it seems like a long time. In my peripheral vision, I see movement. Suddenly, one and then two enormous hairy feet step into my lowered field of view. I increase my grunting exponentially as the feet seem to fill my vision. And then I hear a faint, rhythmic beating. At first I think it’s the sound of my own heart, bursting free. But then the sound grows louder. It seems more like a thumping. I risk it all and raise my eyes. The gorilla’s hairy legs nearly fill my view, almost touching my face. As I tilt my head up, I behold an unforgettable scene: The silverback mountain gorilla is standing over me, pounding his chest, his mouth wide open, teeth bared, head thrown backward, wide eyes staring skyward. King Kong. The iconic alpha male. I quickly lower my head before making eye contact with him. I again focus upon the hairy feet before me. Then, in an instant, he turns on his heels and his feet leave my field of view. I venture a glance as he saunters away to rejoin his family. With a second chance at life, I move on that slope with such speed that I begin to tumble down, cartwheeling to the bottom, covered in mud. I stagger towards the tree line and there’s my guide, who’s watched the entire spectacle from a safe distance. As I see his smiling face, amused and astounded in equal measure, it occurs to me – I came a very long way with a plan to see gorillas in the mist. That day I left the mountain without a single photograph. Preconceived notions, either for a photograph or what I imagine as an ideal experience, yes, can motivate me to book that flight, drive that long road, or climb that steep hill. But so often these notions are just a creation of my imagination – or maybe a scene I once saw in a movie. Twenty years after my visit, the mountain gorilla population has doubled, due to a savvy combination of conservation and sustainable tourism. And I still don’t have that photograph. The memory is worth so much more. GUNATILLAKE: So, on the top of that ridge, even though the light conditions were ideal, the backdrop perfect, and John’s plans meticulous, it really made no difference to the silverback, did it? He was going to express his animal wildness, and all John could do was bear witness. He spent a lot of effort to get his shot and even though he ended up leaving without it, it was the experience and the memory of that experience that stays with him to this day. More often than not, things are like that aren’t they? In our heads, we have one idea of how life’s going to turn out and in reality it turns out completely differently. And while not all of us might be faced with the majestic sight of a silverback in full chest-beating and heart-pumping flow, when we, like John, raise up our eyes, we too can experience some remarkable things. Unplanned, unmediated. Meditation is the same. When starting out, we buy into the romance and think that just by sitting down and closing our eyes, somehow our minds are magically going to drop into some kind of beautiful state, full of rainbows and majestic lakes, effortlessly still, blissful even. But it’s not really like that. Certainly not at first. What turns up is the silverback, the wild, raw, power of the mind. Thoughts, ideas, feelings, energy – untamed. They don’t drop away just because we’re doing this thing we’re calling meditation. Our plans make no difference to the silverback energy of the mind. It can be overwhelming, powerful. And our job is to be there while it beats its chest. Fully there, to bear witness. So let’s do that. But before we slide into meditation, take a moment. What do you think the little meditation we do together is going to be like? What are your expectations? What do you think is going to show up? Ok, now, if it’s safe and comfortable to close your eyes you can do that. And no worries if not. Let your body be in whatever position it is. Inviting comfort, inviting relaxation. And, if you like, you can imagine, you can visualise doing what John did. Slowly crawling up the mountainside, holding onto roots and stumps, scrambling up the slope in the damp, to see what is there to be experienced. What do you find here? Looking inside, looking at your mind, your heart, what animal energy are you most aware of? Can you witness it, bow down to it, be with it, just as John did? For me, as I close my eyes and sense into what’s happening inside me, there’s a sense of vibration, a sense of power even. I thought I’d be feeling calmer but what’s actually happening is this. Not quite as loud as a silverback beating its chest, but powerful all the same. A sense of restlessness, energy which needs an outlet. What is it for you? What energy can you bow down to, bear witness to? Maybe it’s the chaotic chatter of the thinking mind, like the tumbling gorilla toddlers from before? Or maybe it’s the quiet but watchful mind of those toddlers’ mother. If you like this metaphor of your mind as some kind of animal energy, then do use it. If it doesn’t work for you, that’s ok too. What matters is that you look at and experience what’s happening inside you directly, without filters, just as it’s presenting itself to you in this moment. So take a look. What energy is here? However we want our minds to be, however we want our meditation to be, more often than not life has other plans. So even though like John we can have the movie version of what will happen in our minds – and go to great lengths to realise that fantasy – even if those plans never materialise, what does can be truly magical. The loud magic of a silverback gorilla alpha-male-ing you down or the quieter, simpler magic of being present with whatever is here. But to know that magic, we have to surrender. We have to let go of what we want the moment to be like, what we want our mind to be like, and be with how it actually is. To surrender and raise our eyes.
JOHN MOORE: I imagine the splendid scene up in those mountains. Surrounded by lush forest, the gorillas amble out into a clearing and gaze onto the vista. The surrounding hills come in and out of view as a gentle breeze pushes the mist through the trees and dense underbrush. In my mind, the photograph is spectacular. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: As a Special Correspondent for Getty Images, John Moore’s work has taken him all around the world, often to places of great conflict and human drama. Today, we’ll hear John share a story about the pursuit of a photograph that literally brought him to his knees. 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. Some of the prompts may feel really right for you. Others, less so. That’s okay. And now onto the story. John’s experience has an intensity to it, and that may make it a less obvious choice for Meditative Story, but mindfulness doesn’t just mean relaxation. It’s also about vibrancy and aliveness. And now, let go of the need to do anything in particular. Ready to hear John’s story. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MOORE: In 1994, I travel to eastern Congo to photograph hundreds of thousands of Hutu refugees living in sprawling camps. I base myself in the Congolese town of Goma, which straddles the border with Rwanda. My hotel is modest. I stay in a simple one-floor structure. Each room with a mosquito net, hanging above single beds. The rooms are arranged around a common area with worn sofas. The place has been taken over by international journalists, all there to cover the story. I process my film in a bathroom I fashion into a darkroom by covering the window. I mix my chemicals in a contraption known as the “road warrior.” It keeps the developer at an even 100 degrees. Every day, I return covered in a stench from the squalid camps and go into that darkroom. I emerge 20 minutes later smelling of film-developing chemicals, a modest improvement. One day, I photographed a barefoot family, their gray clothes in tatters, as they walked over the black jagged lava, which forms the desolate ground there. They were scouring the area for cooking wood and further reducing wildlife terrain. Beyond them in the distance, smoke rose from the volcanic crater of Mount Nyiragongo, in Virunga National Park. That night, as I finish work I head to the hotel roof. I watch the volcano’s orange glow. It brightens and dims from the bubbling lava below. The park is also the largest habitat for endangered mountain gorillas; it gets me thinking. I know something of these creatures. Like many people, I’ve seen the film “Gorillas in the Mist”. As I gaze at the pulsing orange glow, I think of how beautiful it would be to photograph the gorillas in their natural habitat after my month covering the ravages of war. With the movie in mind, I imagine the splendid scene up in those mountains. Surrounded by lush forest, the gorillas amble out into a clearing and gaze onto the vista. The surrounding hills come in and out of view as a gentle breeze pushes the mist through the trees and dense underbrush. In my mind, the photograph is spectacular. I know as a photojournalist that the strongest pictures are often a combination of preparedness and luck. You can have all of one, but without a little of the other, the image never finds its way into your camera. The next day, I cross the border from Congo into Rwanda. I meet a veteran guide, Jean Bosco, who agrees to take me. It’s his first trip back into the jungle since the military conflict began months before. Together, we climb into a beat-up Land Cruiser, its back seats just a pair of benches that run along the insides of the vehicle. We drive into the foothills, higher and higher, surrounded by beautiful terraced hillsides. After a few hours, we reach the end of the road and the start of a long footpath. The trailhead forms a small clearing where the grass is tall. This time, as we start walking, we go almost immediately into a vertical climb. Dark clouds move in, and I struggle to keep from falling. Rain and wind lash my poncho as I try to keep my gear dry. My cameras, light at the outset, become heavier with every step. GUNATILLAKE: Does it feel like you're carrying a lot of baggage right now? How are your shoulders? Take a moment to roll them, rolling your shoulders back to free up some tension. Perhaps that feels a little lighter. MOORE: After at least three hours of this steep, slippery climb, we meet another local guide, who has just returned from the gorilla habitat. He warns us, sharply: These gorillas are different from the ones on the Congo side. These gorillas have been through war. These gorillas have learned that humans are dangerous. Undeterred, I ask the local guide to take me as close as possible to any gorilla families still in the area. We set out along a wet mountain path. I picture the image I want. As if on cue, the sky briefly clears and the perfect background appears – row upon row of mountains stretched to the horizon, lightly covered in mist. I look up to an adjacent hill and there they are – a family of mountain gorillas striding together along the ridge. It’s a group of four, including two adolescents, a larger female, and a giant silverback male, his high-pitched forehead bobbing along with his casual gait. I ask my guide to take me up so that I can photograph them with my wide lens up close, framed by that incredible view. He arches an eyebrow and shakes his head. “They’re wild again,” he says “and unpredictable.” I look back to the hill and they’re still there. It’s the gorilla photo I imagined while back in Congo. I hand him my camera bag and ask him to wait for me. I start climbing the slope. It doesn’t seem steep at first, but soon I’m crawling up, grasping at vines and roots, trying to keep my camera from slinging into the muck. As the grade becomes steeper, I begin to slip down a step, and then claw my way back, just a bit higher than before. Time slows as the foliage comes loose in my hands. It seems as though I’m crawling in place. I dig the toes of my boots into the hillside and I begin to make headway. By the time I reach the ridge, I’m soaked with sweat, caked in mud. As I stand, I quickly see the situation has changed. The female and children of the family are no longer visible. Standing alone, just 30 yards away, the silverback male remains, waiting for me. He stares at me and I realize that I may have miscalculated. In my disheveled terror, I lower myself into a crouch, as close to the ground as possible. I stare down and begin to clear my throat, making low grunting sounds. This sounds submissive to the gorillas. I have no idea how long I hold that position cowering atop that mountain, staring at the ground before me, but it seems like a long time. In my peripheral vision, I see movement. Suddenly, one and then two enormous hairy feet step into my lowered field of view. I increase my grunting exponentially as the feet seem to fill my vision. And then I hear a faint, rhythmic beating. At first I think it’s the sound of my own heart, bursting free. But then the sound grows louder. It seems more like a thumping. I risk it all and raise my eyes. The gorilla’s hairy legs nearly fill my view, almost touching my face. As I tilt my head up, I behold an unforgettable scene: The silverback mountain gorilla is standing over me, pounding his chest, his mouth wide open, teeth bared, head thrown backward, wide eyes staring skyward. King Kong. The iconic alpha male. I quickly lower my head before making eye contact with him. I again focus upon the hairy feet before me. Then, in an instant, he turns on his heels and his feet leave my field of view. I venture a glance as he saunters away to rejoin his family. With a second chance at life, I move on that slope with such speed that I begin to tumble down, cartwheeling to the bottom, covered in mud. I stagger towards the tree line and there’s my guide, who’s watched the entire spectacle from a safe distance. As I see his smiling face, amused and astounded in equal measure, it occurs to me – I came a very long way with a plan to see gorillas in the mist. That day I left the mountain without a single photograph. Preconceived notions, either for a photograph or what I imagine as an ideal experience, yes, can motivate me to book that flight, drive that long road, or climb that steep hill. But so often these notions are just a creation of my imagination – or maybe a scene I once saw in a movie. Twenty years after my visit, the mountain gorilla population has doubled, due to a savvy combination of conservation and sustainable tourism. And I still don’t have that photograph. The memory is worth so much more. GUNATILLAKE: So, on the top of that ridge, even though the light conditions were ideal, the backdrop perfect, and John’s plans meticulous, it really made no difference to the silverback, did it? He was going to express his animal wildness, and all John could do was bear witness. He spent a lot of effort to get his shot and even though he ended up leaving without it, it was the experience and the memory of that experience that stays with him to this day. More often than not, things are like that aren’t they? In our heads, we have one idea of how life’s going to turn out and in reality it turns out completely differently. And while not all of us might be faced with the majestic sight of a silverback in full chest-beating and heart-pumping flow, when we, like John, raise up our eyes, we too can experience some remarkable things. Unplanned, unmediated. Meditation is the same. When starting out, we buy into the romance and think that just by sitting down and closing our eyes, somehow our minds are magically going to drop into some kind of beautiful state, full of rainbows and majestic lakes, effortlessly still, blissful even. But it’s not really like that. Certainly not at first. What turns up is the silverback, the wild, raw, power of the mind. Thoughts, ideas, feelings, energy – untamed. They don’t drop away just because we’re doing this thing we’re calling meditation. Our plans make no difference to the silverback energy of the mind. It can be overwhelming, powerful. And our job is to be there while it beats its chest. Fully there, to bear witness. So let’s do that. But before we slide into meditation, take a moment. What do you think the little meditation we do together is going to be like? What are your expectations? What do you think is going to show up? Ok, now, if it’s safe and comfortable to close your eyes you can do that. And no worries if not. Let your body be in whatever position it is. Inviting comfort, inviting relaxation. And, if you like, you can imagine, you can visualise doing what John did. Slowly crawling up the mountainside, holding onto roots and stumps, scrambling up the slope in the damp, to see what is there to be experienced. What do you find here? Looking inside, looking at your mind, your heart, what animal energy are you most aware of? Can you witness it, bow down to it, be with it, just as John did? For me, as I close my eyes and sense into what’s happening inside me, there’s a sense of vibration, a sense of power even. I thought I’d be feeling calmer but what’s actually happening is this. Not quite as loud as a silverback beating its chest, but powerful all the same. A sense of restlessness, energy which needs an outlet. What is it for you? What energy can you bow down to, bear witness to? Maybe it’s the chaotic chatter of the thinking mind, like the tumbling gorilla toddlers from before? Or maybe it’s the quiet but watchful mind of those toddlers’ mother. If you like this metaphor of your mind as some kind of animal energy, then do use it. If it doesn’t work for you, that’s ok too. What matters is that you look at and experience what’s happening inside you directly, without filters, just as it’s presenting itself to you in this moment. So take a look. What energy is here? However we want our minds to be, however we want our meditation to be, more often than not life has other plans. So even though like John we can have the movie version of what will happen in our minds – and go to great lengths to realise that fantasy – even if those plans never materialise, what does can be truly magical. The loud magic of a silverback gorilla alpha-male-ing you down or the quieter, simpler magic of being present with whatever is here. But to know that magic, we have to surrender. We have to let go of what we want the moment to be like, what we want our mind to be like, and be with how it actually is. To surrender and raise our eyes.
"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
John Moore is a senior staff photographer and special correspondent for Getty Images. He has photographed in 65 countries on six continents and was posted internationally for 17 years, first to Nicaragua, then India, South Africa, Mexico, Egypt and Pakistan. Since returning to the US in 2008, he has focused on immigration and border issues. He won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Photography, among many other awards, and is the author of "Undocumented: Immigration and the Militarization of the United States-Mexico Border."
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Life and love and the moment
John Moore
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The perfect photograph I never took
OPENNESS
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While filming one day in the Congo rainforest, legendary photojournalist John Moore pursued the vision of a perfect photograph – a vision that literally brought him to his knees. He shares the magic that can occur when you let go of the desire to control the outcome.
While filming one day in the Congo rainforest, legendary photojournalist John Moore pursued the vision of a perfect photograph – a vision that literally brought him to his knees. He shares the magic that can occur when you let go of the desire to control the outcome.
JOHN'S MEDITATIVE STORY
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Episode Transcript
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From the closing meditation
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
"In our heads, we have one idea of how life’s going to turn out, and in reality it turns out completely differently. And while not all of us might be faced with the majestic sight of a silverback in full chest-beating and heart-pumping flow, when we – like John – raise up our eyes, we too can experience some remarkable things. Unplanned. Unmediated."
John Moore
Episode Transcript
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
SUBSCRIBE
As a Special Correspondent for Getty Images, John Moore’s work has taken him around the world, often to places of great conflict and human drama. Here, he shares a story about the pursuit of a singular photograph – in the hills of the Congo Rainforest – that literally brought him to his knees. We approach life full of expectations... can we make room for the magic that occurs when things don’t go as planned?
About John Moore
Arianna Huffington
JOHN MOORE
JOHN'S MEDITATIVE STORY
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
PRESENCE
PRESENCE
JOHN MOORE
Life and love and the moment
SUBSCRIBE
As a Special Correspondent for Getty Images, John Moore’s work has taken him around the world, often to places of great conflict and human drama. Here, he shares a story about the pursuit of a singular photograph – in the hills of the Congo Rainforest – that literally brought him to his knees. We approach life full of expectations... can we make room for the magic that occurs when things don’t go as planned?
The perfect photograph I never took
Arianna Huffington
John Moore is a senior staff photographer and special correspondent for Getty Images. He has photographed in 65 countries on six continents and was posted internationally for 17 years, first to Nicaragua, then India, South Africa, Mexico, Egypt and Pakistan. Since returning to the US in 2008, he has focused on immigration and border issues. He won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Photography, among many other awards, and is the author of "Undocumented: Immigration and the Militarization of the United States-Mexico Border."
About John Moore
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
DANNY MEYER: These early trips are filled with delight which continues over the course of my travels. The delight is always connected to discovery. And often, in my case, the discovery is connected to things I get to taste. It doesn't have to be fancy food. It can be utterly simple and cheap. Every time I taste something delicious what fascinates me is who came up with the idea, what can I learn about it? What does it say about the people who made it? ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I love making food and I think I’m pretty good at it. And there’s so much to the culture of food that makes me feel alive – how it grows, how it brings people together, food’s ability to express our identity, community, creativity, our values. In today’s episode, world famous restaurateur Danny Meyer takes us back to where it all began for him, a family trip to Europe which opened his young eyes to what the experience of eating food together could be like. 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 for a deeper connection to the story and what’s happening in your own experience as you listen. And before I hand over to Danny, let’s try something. Can you remember the last truly wonderful meal you had? It might have been recently or a while back. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it was so memorable that just by saying the words “wonderful meal” it comes to mind. Now bring to mind the specific aspects of what made it so lovely. Perhaps it was the company. Perhaps it was the dishes themselves. Or maybe it was the place where they were served. Picture it. That special meal back in your mind. Alive again. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MEYER: Just before my twelfth birthday, my dad – who was in the travel business back in St. Louis – found himself negotiating to lease two different hotels in Rome. The good news for me and my family was that his negotiations were taking place not only during our two-week spring vacation but also during my twelfth birthday. That was the first time I ever went to Rome and I remember on the actual day of my birthday having a twelve course pasta tasting dinner. It was a revelation to me. A complete revelation. Just the discovery of all these flavors and foods and people and places that I'd never experienced growing up. The next day, my dad took us all to a famous old restaurant in Trastevere called Da Meo Patacca. Immediately, it hits me: the garlicky wafts of tomato sauce. The warm laughter around the tiny tables. All of my senses are suddenly awake. I’ve never seen a restaurant like this, and I’ve never had food like this. There was the pasta of course… And the platters overflowing with artichokes! I had had artichokes back home in St. Louis – you know, the big, round ones, which my mom would sometimes boil to death, the leaves then dipped into melted butter. But I’ve never seen these long artichokes, fried and smashed into carciofi alla guida. And the roast baby lamb, abbacchio, with its odd cuts and tiny bones that are so succulent. GUNATILLAKE: What a place and what a meal. Can you imagine sitting there at young Danny's table? What would most capture your attention: the smells, the tastes, the spectacle? MEYER: It’s an entirely different world from what I know growing up in St. Louis. Back home, I’m used to the flavors of the American Midwest. The mellow experience of growing up there as a kid in the ‘60s, a somewhat repetitive culinary experience. Think: curb-side burgers, frozen custard, St. Louis-style pizza topped with Provel, which is basically a lot of different cheeses combined, to the point where it doesn’t really taste like cheese at all. But in Rome, everything tastes exactly as you’d hope it would. And the food in Rome was the great discovery of my life. I would go on to visit Europe every few years as a kid – and now as often as possible as an adult. These early trips are filled with delight which continues over the course of my travels. The delight is always connected to discovery. I’ve come to believe this sense of discovery can be as nourishing as food itself. But discovery means different things to different people. For some people, discovery is about seeing something unexpected; for others, it’s about doing something they didn’t know they were capable of. In my case, the discovery is connected to things I get to taste. My passion for food is the portal that connects me most deeply to the world. Every time I taste something delicious, what fascinates me is: Who came up with the idea, what can I learn about it? What does it say about the people who made it? I’ll never forget the first time I finally figured out that almost every Roman trattoria has the exact same pastas on the menu and every one of them is related. There’s the cacio e pepe, which is simply spaghetti with pecorino cheese, olive oil, and lots of black pepper. Then by simply adding guanciale, the bacon that comes from the cheek of the pig, it becomes spaghetti alla gricia. Or, by adding eggs, that same exact recipe becomes spaghetti alla carbonara. And if you omit the eggs and add tomato sauce instead, you get spaghetti alla amatriciana. Four different pastas, all related. What impresses me isn’t always the complexity of the idea; sometimes it’s the simplicity. Something that impacted me from a young age about Italy was the emphasis on ingredients. Great Italian cooks really cherish, respect their ingredients. A little olive oil and salt doesn’t provide much disguise if the tomato itself isn’t perfectly sun-ripened, or if the basil isn’t fragrant. I remember a spaghetti alla carbonara, melanzane alla parmigiana, vongole veraci – the tiny clams that would open just as they were kissed by the garlic, olive oil, and spaghetti with which they were meant to marry. All so simple and unadorned. One of the things I discovered about myself in Rome, that I prize wherever I find it, is an Italian word called sprezzatura. Sprezzatura is what happens when the food – or the painting or the athletic endeavour or the architecture – comes across as having been effortless, and yet the quality belies that. In other words, you can dig into a bowl of pasta that is so amazing and makes you so happy, and you know how much work must have gone into it – and yet, you look at that bowl of pasta and it appears to be effortless. That’s sprezzatura. Today, that very ethos informs everything I do. How can this feel more timeless? How can the dining room be a little less designed, the dessert a little less composed? It’s a mindset of being understated, pared back. Letting the fundamentals shine. It's so easy to fall into the trap of believing that more is better. Whenever I find myself thinking this way, I remind myself of the simple bowls of pasta I discovered in Rome. And the little things that make all the difference. GUNATILLAKE: What little things can you notice right now around you? Even if they seem familiar, can you see, hear, or feel them with real freshness? There can be so much joy to being a tourist wherever you are. MEYER: In Rome, I also discovered the way the restaurant itself can transform a meal: the earthy terracotta floors, the checkered tablecloths, the domed brick ceiling, and a warm glow of table lanterns. The tables are closer together than I’ve ever seen in St. Louis. In the trattorias of Rome, no matter where you sit, you feel the buzzing energy of everyone around you. It’s that energy – the locals, the music of the motorcycles everywhere – all around. I find an irresistibly chaotic cacophony, and it almost always leads to a really good meal. There’s something about the different kinds of energy that heighten my senses. I feel connected to the people around me – and present. Still today, there’s nowhere I feel more at home – or more alive – than at a trattoria. I think I learned from these trattorias to pay attention to the tiny details. I’ll never forget how odd it was when I first came to New York and I realized that, unlike St. Louis where I’d grown up, you don’t get a little lemon zest with your espresso. And why was it in New York, unlike Rome, the cappuccino was known for how tall the foam was, almost as if someone was trying to create the Matterhorn mountain on top of the cup. And now today, something that you would also never seen in Rome, New York places always try to design the foam. So many people go in search of grand revelations. But I find discoveries everywhere I look. Even in little things, like the foam on my coffee. Italy is still my favorite place to go in search of these tiny discoveries. There's just something about Rome that to this day, I feel like I must have lived there in a previous life. I go to the market and smell every single thing that can be smelled. I stop for three or four coffees even when I don’t need coffee – because how can I not? I notice the milk, the cups, the tiny chocolate or treat served on the side. And every time I pass one of those iconic drinking fountains, the ones you see all over Rome, I stop and drink from it. Like the city itself, like travel itself, the fountains of Rome rejuvenate me to continue my tour of discovery. GUNATILLAKE: I have to be honest, I had to look up sprezzatura in the dictionary. It was a new word and idea to me, but I love it. In one place I saw it translated as ‘studied carelessness’, when something has the appearance of having just been thrown together but actually has been the result of meticulous skilled work. So Italian. All of which made me wonder what would be the most sprezzatura of meditation techniques? And the one that came to mind right away is one called noting. So that’s what we’re going to try a little bit of now. So let’s get ready. If you’re sitting, sitting comfortably. If you’re standing, standing comfortably. However your body is, seeing if you can let it express the qualities of both alertness and relaxation. Uprightness in the spine supporting alertness. Softness in the belly supporting relaxation and openness. Enjoying resting your awareness in the body. Letting your awareness fill the whole of your body. From the touch of your feet on the ground to the top of your head. Being present. Present in the body. Simple. Whole. And Here. And now that we have established ourselves in awareness of the body we’re going to play a little game. And the rules are quite simple. At any one time, there will be a particular aspect of your inner experience which is most prominent, which most stands out, where your attention is drawn to. Be interested in what that is, and the game is to simply say its name out loud. And if you’re not sure what’s most prominent, then simply say “not sure”, and by definition you’re naming what is happening. That might not be clear, so let me do an example: Tension. Touch. Tingling. Planning. Thinking. Not sure. Calm. That’s all it is. What we’re doing is being aware of what’s most prominent inside ourselves and saying its name out loud. Nothing more to it. It’s actually quite straightforward. So do give that a go yourself. And if it doesn’t feel right to say the words out loud, just say them internally to yourself. I’ll start again and when I stop, it’s over to you: Touch. Tingling. Not sure. Grateful. Calm. Ok now you, just naming what is happening while it’s happening. That might have felt odd or it might have felt great. Either way, this is one of my favorite mindfulness techniques around, because if mindfulness is knowing what’s happening inside yourself while it’s happening, then doing this noting technique is as pure a form of mindfulness as we can get. Ok. Letting your awareness fill the whole body again. Noticing the energy that’s here, the momentum from having done the exercise. Building back our reserves of stability and balance. And let’s give it another go. Again I’ll start off and then it’s over to you. Just naming what’s happening in your inner experience, whatever’s most prominent. If that’s a physical sensation, then naming that physical sensation. If it’s a mental process, naming that mental process. There are only a few simple rules to keep in mind. Keep the rhythm going nicely so that your mindfulness is good and constant. If you’re thinking about dinner, the thing you should note is thinking rather than dinner since what is happening is the thinking, not the dinner. And if you’re not sure what’s happening then just note not sure. And you’ll be right. Oh and have fun. Again, I’ll start you off: Tingling. Not sure. Relaxation. Itching. Amusement. Thinking. Now over to you. Nicely done. I hope that was fun. And I also hope that you can see why I think it’s a technique of real sprezzatura. Because while deceptively simple on the outside, it belies the fact that what you need to do to make it happen is a really strong foundation in mindfulness and an alive and alert mind. You might have really connected with this technique or it might not have worked for you this first time around, that’s totally normal. If you do like it, remember it’s entirely portable. Every moment is a chance to note what’s happening inside. Every moment is another stop on your tour of discovery.
From the closing meditation
Danny Meyer is the CEO of Union Square Hospitality Group, which runs Gramercy Tavern, Blue Smoke, Shake Shack, The Modern, and more. Meyer and USHG have won 28 James Beard Foundation Awards. Meyer is also the author of multiple books, including the IACP Julia Child Award winner The Union Square Cafe Cookbook and the New York Times best seller Setting the Table.
"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?"
Danny Meyer
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DANNY MEYER: These early trips are filled with delight which continues over the course of my travels. The delight is always connected to discovery. And often, in my case, the discovery is connected to things I get to taste. It doesn't have to be fancy food. It can be utterly simple and cheap. Every time I taste something delicious what fascinates me is who came up with the idea, what can I learn about it? What does it say about the people who made it? ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I love making food and I think I’m pretty good at it. And there’s so much to the culture of food that makes me feel alive – how it grows, how it brings people together, food’s ability to express our identity, community, creativity, our values. In today’s episode, world famous restaurateur Danny Meyer takes us back to where it all began for him, a family trip to Europe which opened his young eyes to what the experience of eating food together could be like. 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 for a deeper connection to the story and what’s happening in your own experience as you listen. And before I hand over to Danny, let’s try something. Can you remember the last truly wonderful meal you had? It might have been recently or a while back. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it was so memorable that just by saying the words “wonderful meal” it comes to mind. Now bring to mind the specific aspects of what made it so lovely. Perhaps it was the company. Perhaps it was the dishes themselves. Or maybe it was the place where they were served. Picture it. That special meal back in your mind. Alive again. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MEYER: Just before my twelfth birthday, my dad – who was in the travel business back in St. Louis – found himself negotiating to lease two different hotels in Rome. The good news for me and my family was that his negotiations were taking place not only during our two-week spring vacation but also during my twelfth birthday. That was the first time I ever went to Rome and I remember on the actual day of my birthday having a twelve course pasta tasting dinner. It was a revelation to me. A complete revelation. Just the discovery of all these flavors and foods and people and places that I'd never experienced growing up. The next day, my dad took us all to a famous old restaurant in Trastevere called Da Meo Patacca. Immediately, it hits me: the garlicky wafts of tomato sauce. The warm laughter around the tiny tables. All of my senses are suddenly awake. I’ve never seen a restaurant like this, and I’ve never had food like this. There was the pasta of course… And the platters overflowing with artichokes! I had had artichokes back home in St. Louis – you know, the big, round ones, which my mom would sometimes boil to death, the leaves then dipped into melted butter. But I’ve never seen these long artichokes, fried and smashed into carciofi alla guida. And the roast baby lamb, abbacchio, with its odd cuts and tiny bones that are so succulent. GUNATILLAKE: What a place and what a meal. Can you imagine sitting there at young Danny's table? What would most capture your attention: the smells, the tastes, the spectacle? MEYER: It’s an entirely different world from what I know growing up in St. Louis. Back home, I’m used to the flavors of the American Midwest. The mellow experience of growing up there as a kid in the ‘60s, a somewhat repetitive culinary experience. Think: curb-side burgers, frozen custard, St. Louis-style pizza topped with Provel, which is basically a lot of different cheeses combined, to the point where it doesn’t really taste like cheese at all. But in Rome, everything tastes exactly as you’d hope it would. And the food in Rome was the great discovery of my life. I would go on to visit Europe every few years as a kid – and now as often as possible as an adult. These early trips are filled with delight which continues over the course of my travels. The delight is always connected to discovery. I’ve come to believe this sense of discovery can be as nourishing as food itself. But discovery means different things to different people. For some people, discovery is about seeing something unexpected; for others, it’s about doing something they didn’t know they were capable of. In my case, the discovery is connected to things I get to taste. My passion for food is the portal that connects me most deeply to the world. Every time I taste something delicious, what fascinates me is: Who came up with the idea, what can I learn about it? What does it say about the people who made it? I’ll never forget the first time I finally figured out that almost every Roman trattoria has the exact same pastas on the menu and every one of them is related. There’s the cacio e pepe, which is simply spaghetti with pecorino cheese, olive oil, and lots of black pepper. Then by simply adding guanciale, the bacon that comes from the cheek of the pig, it becomes spaghetti alla gricia. Or, by adding eggs, that same exact recipe becomes spaghetti alla carbonara. And if you omit the eggs and add tomato sauce instead, you get spaghetti alla amatriciana. Four different pastas, all related. What impresses me isn’t always the complexity of the idea; sometimes it’s the simplicity. Something that impacted me from a young age about Italy was the emphasis on ingredients. Great Italian cooks really cherish, respect their ingredients. A little olive oil and salt doesn’t provide much disguise if the tomato itself isn’t perfectly sun-ripened, or if the basil isn’t fragrant. I remember a spaghetti alla carbonara, melanzane alla parmigiana, vongole veraci – the tiny clams that would open just as they were kissed by the garlic, olive oil, and spaghetti with which they were meant to marry. All so simple and unadorned. One of the things I discovered about myself in Rome, that I prize wherever I find it, is an Italian word called sprezzatura. Sprezzatura is what happens when the food – or the painting or the athletic endeavour or the architecture – comes across as having been effortless, and yet the quality belies that. In other words, you can dig into a bowl of pasta that is so amazing and makes you so happy, and you know how much work must have gone into it – and yet, you look at that bowl of pasta and it appears to be effortless. That’s sprezzatura. Today, that very ethos informs everything I do. How can this feel more timeless? How can the dining room be a little less designed, the dessert a little less composed? It’s a mindset of being understated, pared back. Letting the fundamentals shine. It's so easy to fall into the trap of believing that more is better. Whenever I find myself thinking this way, I remind myself of the simple bowls of pasta I discovered in Rome. And the little things that make all the difference. GUNATILLAKE: What little things can you notice right now around you? Even if they seem familiar, can you see, hear, or feel them with real freshness? There can be so much joy to being a tourist wherever you are. MEYER: In Rome, I also discovered the way the restaurant itself can transform a meal: the earthy terracotta floors, the checkered tablecloths, the domed brick ceiling, and a warm glow of table lanterns. The tables are closer together than I’ve ever seen in St. Louis. In the trattorias of Rome, no matter where you sit, you feel the buzzing energy of everyone around you. It’s that energy – the locals, the music of the motorcycles everywhere – all around. I find an irresistibly chaotic cacophony, and it almost always leads to a really good meal. There’s something about the different kinds of energy that heighten my senses. I feel connected to the people around me – and present. Still today, there’s nowhere I feel more at home – or more alive – than at a trattoria. I think I learned from these trattorias to pay attention to the tiny details. I’ll never forget how odd it was when I first came to New York and I realized that, unlike St. Louis where I’d grown up, you don’t get a little lemon zest with your espresso. And why was it in New York, unlike Rome, the cappuccino was known for how tall the foam was, almost as if someone was trying to create the Matterhorn mountain on top of the cup. And now today, something that you would also never seen in Rome, New York places always try to design the foam. So many people go in search of grand revelations. But I find discoveries everywhere I look. Even in little things, like the foam on my coffee. Italy is still my favorite place to go in search of these tiny discoveries. There's just something about Rome that to this day, I feel like I must have lived there in a previous life. I go to the market and smell every single thing that can be smelled. I stop for three or four coffees even when I don’t need coffee – because how can I not? I notice the milk, the cups, the tiny chocolate or treat served on the side. And every time I pass one of those iconic drinking fountains, the ones you see all over Rome, I stop and drink from it. Like the city itself, like travel itself, the fountains of Rome rejuvenate me to continue my tour of discovery. GUNATILLAKE: I have to be honest, I had to look up sprezzatura in the dictionary. It was a new word and idea to me, but I love it. In one place I saw it translated as ‘studied carelessness’, when something has the appearance of having just been thrown together but actually has been the result of meticulous skilled work. So Italian. All of which made me wonder what would be the most sprezzatura of meditation techniques? And the one that came to mind right away is one called noting. So that’s what we’re going to try a little bit of now. So let’s get ready. If you’re sitting, sitting comfortably. If you’re standing, standing comfortably. However your body is, seeing if you can let it express the qualities of both alertness and relaxation. Uprightness in the spine supporting alertness. Softness in the belly supporting relaxation and openness. Enjoying resting your awareness in the body. Letting your awareness fill the whole of your body. From the touch of your feet on the ground to the top of your head. Being present. Present in the body. Simple. Whole. And Here. And now that we have established ourselves in awareness of the body we’re going to play a little game. And the rules are quite simple. At any one time, there will be a particular aspect of your inner experience which is most prominent, which most stands out, where your attention is drawn to. Be interested in what that is, and the game is to simply say its name out loud. And if you’re not sure what’s most prominent, then simply say “not sure”, and by definition you’re naming what is happening. That might not be clear, so let me do an example: Tension. Touch. Tingling. Planning. Thinking. Not sure. Calm. That’s all it is. What we’re doing is being aware of what’s most prominent inside ourselves and saying its name out loud. Nothing more to it. It’s actually quite straightforward. So do give that a go yourself. And if it doesn’t feel right to say the words out loud, just say them internally to yourself. I’ll start again and when I stop, it’s over to you: Touch. Tingling. Not sure. Grateful. Calm. Ok now you, just naming what is happening while it’s happening. That might have felt odd or it might have felt great. Either way, this is one of my favorite mindfulness techniques around, because if mindfulness is knowing what’s happening inside yourself while it’s happening, then doing this noting technique is as pure a form of mindfulness as we can get. Ok. Letting your awareness fill the whole body again. Noticing the energy that’s here, the momentum from having done the exercise. Building back our reserves of stability and balance. And let’s give it another go. Again I’ll start off and then it’s over to you. Just naming what’s happening in your inner experience, whatever’s most prominent. If that’s a physical sensation, then naming that physical sensation. If it’s a mental process, naming that mental process. There are only a few simple rules to keep in mind. Keep the rhythm going nicely so that your mindfulness is good and constant. If you’re thinking about dinner, the thing you should note is thinking rather than dinner since what is happening is the thinking, not the dinner. And if you’re not sure what’s happening then just note not sure. And you’ll be right. Oh and have fun. Again, I’ll start you off: Tingling. Not sure. Relaxation. Itching. Amusement. Thinking. Now over to you. Nicely done. I hope that was fun. And I also hope that you can see why I think it’s a technique of real sprezzatura. Because while deceptively simple on the outside, it belies the fact that what you need to do to make it happen is a really strong foundation in mindfulness and an alive and alert mind. You might have really connected with this technique or it might not have worked for you this first time around, that’s totally normal. If you do like it, remember it’s entirely portable. Every moment is a chance to note what’s happening inside. Every moment is another stop on your tour of discovery.
ATTENTION
Listen
Restaurateur Danny Meyer takes us back to where it all began for him: a family trip to Europe and a simple plate of pasta. That memorable meal sparked a lifetime practice of discovery that continues to feed his creativity and his soul.
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Restaurateur Danny Meyer takes us back to where it all began for him: a family trip to Europe and a simple plate of pasta. That memorable meal sparked a lifetime practice of discovery that continues to feed his creativity and his soul.
How to find—and feed—your passion
INSPIRATION
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Episode Transcript
How to find—and feed —your passion
CREATIVITY
INSPIRATION
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
SUBSCRIBE
About Danny Meyer
Danny Meyer
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Danny Meyer
Episode Transcript
Danny Meyer is a world-renowned restaurateur but his love of food was born out of a simple plate of pasta during a family trip as young boy. It was the joy in that first discovery that ignited his passion and led to everything that would come later. And it's in practicing discovery, we feed our ability to create and soulfulness in our lives.
CREATIVITY
DANNY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
"Every moment is a chance to note what’s happening inside. Every moment is another stop on your tour of discovery."
DANNY'S MEDITATIVE STORY
ATTENTION
DANNY MEYER
Listen
Danny Meyer is a world-renowned restaurateur but his love of food was born out of a simple plate of pasta during a family trip as young boy. It was the joy in that first discovery that ignited his passion and led to everything that would come later. And it's in practicing discovery, we feed our ability to create and soulfulness in our lives.
DANNY MEYER
Danny Meyer is the CEO of Union Square Hospitality Group, which runs Gramercy Tavern, Blue Smoke, Shake Shack, The Modern, and more. Meyer and USHG have won 28 James Beard Foundation Awards. Meyer is also the author of multiple books, including the IACP Julia Child Award winner The Union Square Cafe Cookbook and the New York Times best seller Setting the Table.
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
About Jane McGonigal
Jane McGonigal
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Jane McGonigal
Episode Transcript
Game designer and author Jane McGonigal shares a story born in her DNA. She's an identitical twin and on her sister's face she sees both a window into a parallel life – of a different path taken – and a reflection of her own choices. And while those distorted images once made her question her very existence, she nows finds peace in knowing that she is who she is meant to be.
Clarity
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JANE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
JANE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Acceptance
Jane Mcgonigal
Finding my own reflection
Listen
Game designer and author Jane McGonigal shares a story born in her DNA. She's an identical twin, and on her sister's face she can see a window into a parallel life, a different path taken. While this doubled image once made her question her own existence, she has found peace in knowing that the person she's become is the person she's meant to be.
Jane McGonigal is a game designer and the author of the books "Reality is Broken" and "SuperBetter." In her work as a game designer, she focuses on using mobile and digital tech to channel positive attitudes. She's also the Chief Science Officer at SuperBetter Labs.
To help me deepen my understanding of meditation, I spent a fair amount of time in my 20s travelling around the world learning from different teachers and styles. And when in Thailand I came across the saying: “same, same but different.” It’s one of those phrases which you hear everywhere, and even see on the occasional t-shirt. Jane’s story brought it back to my mind. Her and her sister: same, same but different. In the Zen tradition there’s the saying: not one, not two. Not one, not two. I love the mystery of those words, designed to point to the interdependency of things.
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From the closing meditation
JANE MCGONIGAL: Having an identical twin means being able to see someone who looks so similar to you, and to have such an intimacy growing up, that you can really see a parallel universe of choices that can be made or taken. I think we all have an imaginary twin – that alternate reality version of ourselves who made a different decision, or took a different path, or never had that injury or illness. We can all imagine living those alternate lives and occupying those different bodies. And we can either torment ourselves with that, or we can embrace and celebrate the creativity and intention that goes into being our unique selves. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I’ve loved the work of this week’s storyteller for over a decade now. Her ideas about using all parts of our lives as a playground, of how games can be used to drive personal and social change, have been deeply influential to my work. But in today’s story, Jane McGonigal, game designer and author of Reality is Broken and SuperBetter, shares something very different and very personal. 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 before we hear from Jane, I’d like you to smile. When I think back to the couple of times I’ve met Jane in person over the years, what comes to mind is her energy and her joy. So smile, even if you don’t feel like it. Especially if you don’t feel like it. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MCGONIGAL: When I look in the mirror, I see the tear first. It’s not where you would expect it to be, not falling from an eye, or running down one cheek. Instead, it rests right between my eyes, or more precisely, between my eyebrows. Such a strange place for a tear. You shouldn’t be there. How did you get there? I’ve been asking this question since I was six. I’m now 41. I know the answer. This teardrop shape is a scar. One that I made all by myself, by scratching furiously at chicken pox that all the grown-ups told me not to scratch. That one little pox in the center of my face was the itchiest. I couldn’t keep my fingers off it. It scarred into the teardrop shape it keeps today. So yes, I know how it got there. But I guess what I was really asking, for so many years, was, “How did it get on my face, and not on hers?” Her. My identical twin sister, Kelly. When I say identical, I mean identical. We are mirror images – or at least we started out that way. It’s a family legend that for the first two years of our lives, our mom and dad kept a green ribbon tied around Kelly’s wrist so they wouldn’t mix us up. That’s how similar we were. “Green for Kelly green,” the color of the lush Irish landscape. See the green ribbon? That’s Kelly. No green ribbon? Must be Jane! Later, as we got older, she and I wondered if they really had mixed us up, once, twice, a dozen times. What if they’d lost track of that green ribbon? What if they tied it on the wrong wrist? I would ask my sister, “What if I’m really Kelly? What if you’re really Jane?” And we would sit there, pondering deeply, the almost nonsensical question: Am I still the same person, if really, I was supposed to be you? Looking at our family photo album of pictures taken in the years after the ribbon went away, Kelly and I still have to play a guessing game. “Is that you in the photo? Or is it me?” even our parents, looking at the same photos, can’t say for sure. On the back of some photos, in my dad’s scratchy handwriting, you can sometimes see written in ballpoint ink the year, followed by the location of the photo, and then one of our names ‘Jane’ or ‘Kelly’ followed by a question mark. Jane? Kelly? Who can say? Sometimes I think I interpreted that question mark as implying maybe it didn’t even matter which one of us it was. Maybe that’s why the first physical difference felt so important. That chicken pox scar, which I made it with my own two hands. It was the first visible sign, clear as day to anyone looking at us, that we were two different people. Throughout elementary and middle school, whenever we met someone new, and they would invariably say something like, “Wow! You’re so identical!” I would cheerfully point to my forehead and say, “Aha! But I’ve got this scar!” In other words, “See me! I’m Jane! Please don’t say it doesn’t matter which one is which!” But that question was always there. What did this scar mean? Why did I get one, and not Kelly? To my child mind, this was SUCH an important question. Why did she get to keep the perfect face, the best possible version of our DNA, while I would now have to be the imperfect version of us? When everyone sees you as the same, the tiniest difference can seem to hold so much meaning. GUNATILLAKE: You may not be a twin, but can you remember the first time when you felt different from the people around you, your family, your friends? Take a moment to observe how you see yourself relative to someone else you love. MCGONIGAL: I still try to make meaning of it today. I try to see in that six-year-old version of me the seeds of the unique individual I am now, to see some clues to who Kelly and I would become. I can say for sure that I’m more strongly goal-oriented than my twin sister. I’m the gamer, I’m the one drawn to competitive sports. I often think of myself in some kind of purposeful battle, whether I’m overcoming a concussion or working with the World Bank to try to stop climate change. Looking back to that early, identity-defining war with the chicken pox on my face, it feels like that scar grew out of some inner drive to fight, to go to battle, to best the virus in some strange, elemental way. I just could not let that itch win. Meanwhile, my sister Kelly, who blissfully resisted that same impulse, would grow up to earn a PhD in psychology and write a world-famous, bestselling book on the science of willpower. The secrets of which she clearly had already mastered at a very, very young age. Somehow, in those two different outcomes, scar and no scar, we were already becoming something other than identical, pushing against the destiny of our DNA, by making choices, exercising free will, forging our own unique lives. Or maybe, when the primary way people tell you apart from your twin is through physical scars, then you start to see yourself that way; it shapes your personality. Which comes first: the chicken or the egg? The chicken pox or the itch for adventure? As we got older, it wasn’t just the chicken pox scar anymore. In high school, I broke my nose – I was hit in the face with a softball pitch. It didn’t heal properly, so now I had a scar and a bump. I still look at her nose and think, “Ah, the nose I could have had.” My brain has scars too, from multiple concussions, one that was pretty serious. If you compared our brains in an FMRI machine, I’m sure you could see that difference, too. In many ways, I feel like the “after” picture in a bizarre “before” and “after” series, where the after is worse for the wear. After this injury, after this illness, after this trauma. It was our senior year of college, and I was studying in New York City, and Kelly was visiting me from Boston. She stopped by the office where I was interning, met all my colleagues, and as soon as she left, one of them came over to me, looking almost in awe, and said, “Wow, Jane. Your sister is gorgeous. I mean, she is STUNNING!” I wanted to say, “Wait, we’re identical twins. Why are you surprised by how she looks? It was clear what he meant. She was gorgeous, I wasn’t. And I wouldn’t say he was wrong. Some days, I do feel like I’m just the battered, beat up version of her, or I should say, the battered, beat-up version of us. On good days, I’m at peace with that. I feel like there's something about my personality that's just a little more like “bring it on, life, do you worst to me.” And that’s actually, I think, the best part of me. That desire to rise to the occasion, to seek out adventure, to not back off from battle. And maybe that difference was there at birth. GUNATILLAKE: What aspect of your personality is the best part of you? Dropping any thoughts of self-judgement just for now, can you name a quality that others really appreciate in you. And appreciating it yourself. No judgement, just recognition. MCGONIGAL: To me, that is a wondrous thing. That two people, born with identical DNA, raised in the same house, by the same parents, breathing the same air, eating the same food, could still somehow be two different people. We talk about the effects of nature versus nurture. But there is something else, a third thing, because despite sharing the same nature and sharing the same nurture, we exerted some unique soul-force and became who we are. Not who we were meant to be, but who we meant to be. The biggest, most profound difference in that before and after series that I play out in my mind, is that I became a parent and she didn’t. I have twin daughters now myself. it’s like the Einstein twin paradox where you send one identical twin into space, traveling at the speed of light, and the other twin stays on earth, and because of the theory of relativity, the space-traveling twin doesn't age and comes back to Earth and everybody, including their own twin, is 70 years older. I think that's what parenting is like. If you have the same DNA as somebody else and then you become a parent, for every one year they age, you age seven years. It’s just the constant physical and emotional stress, the lack of sleep, the constant caretaking, not having time to eat healthy and exercise as much, always being sick with every cold and virus that your kid catches. There's a very strange physical sensation, every time I see Kelly now, it's like looking in a funhouse mirror. A mirror that shows, more than ever, a different version of me, a me with more energy, more ability, a me I could have been, a me my DNA set me up to be. The act of having a child and becoming a parent, you're never the same. It changes how your brain works. It changes how your body responds to stress. I think a lot of people feel like when they become a parent, there's another version of themselves that they left behind to go on this journey. And how do you now accept that you're not at peak physicality? Or peak productivity? That's how I feel. I feel very underperforming in some areas of my life right now, because of the care and energy required as a parent. But then at the same time, I feel like I'm at peak love. Never in my life have I been so loving and put so much time and energy into that, and never in my life have I received so much love back. For me, the love that I’m feeling constantly everyday, the love I get to give and the love I get to receive, and the love that my husband and I get to experience together as a team, it’s worth the battle scars. Having an identical twin, you really see the toll of your life choices. And it’s not that you regret any of it, but you really are forced to look at how the choices you make change you. I'm sure Kelly has her own experience of that. I’m sure she doesn’t always feel like the more perfect version of me. I’m sure she sees her own scars, her own choices. My twins are fraternal and nobody mixes them up. One is already 3 inches taller than the other. They have different eye colors. And it’s not just physical. Their personalities are different. One of them is super extroverted. There might be only one other person in the room, but she’s lit up like she’s on the Broadway stage, performing to the last person in the back row of the balcony, every moment of the day. My other daughter is a listener. She asks amazing questions. She approaches the world like a scientist. My twins being fraternal is a totally different experience of twin-ness. I don't worry about them having to forcibly show the world that they are two unique people I don’t have to wait until one of them has a scar. They are already their own fully-formed unique selves – and maybe that's something that I didn't understand about my own twin-ness. What I know about them, that I didn’t know about myself, is that the differences I see in their personalities and bodies may be as temporary as the Kelly green ribbon my parents put on my sister’s wrist. I’m not going to define them in comparison to each other, because they’re always changing, always creating and recreating themselves. GUNATILLAKE: Feel your feet on the ground. Feel the air on your face. Watch the fluidity in your own self right now, sensations coming and going, thoughts coming and going. Is anything really fixed? MCGONIGAL: Having an identical twin means being able to see someone who looks so similar to you, and to have such an intimacy growing up, that you can really see a parallel universe of choices that can be made or taken. But having an identical other didn’t define me, because I think we all have an imaginary twin – that alternate reality version of ourselves who made a different decision, or took a different path, or never had that injury or illness. We can all imagine living those alternate lives and occupying those different bodies, and we can either torment ourselves with that, or we can embrace and celebrate the creativity and intention that goes into being our unique selves and bringing our unique selves into existence every day, physically, mentally, and in our relationships to others. We don’t have to live in a state of comparison to our imagined possible selves, or to anyone else for that matter. However you came to be who you are today, there is no other version of you. You created yourself, and no one else – identical DNA or not – could ever replicate the unique and wondrous version that you created, choice by choice and scar by scar and adventure by adventure. What I’ve learned is you can’t look to anyone else for a reflection of yourself. Your story is in your mirror, in your body, in your home, in your truth. GUNATILLAKE: To help me deepen my understanding of meditation, I spent a fair amount of time in my 20s travelling around the world learning from different teachers and styles. And when in Thailand I came across the saying: “same, same but different.” It’s one of those phrases which you hear everywhere, and even see on the occasional t-shirt. Jane’s story brought it back to my mind. Her and her sister: same, same but different. In the Zen tradition there’s the saying: not one, not two. Not one, not two. I love the mystery of those words, designed to point to the interdependency of things. And that’s the idea we’re going to play with in this short practice together. And the interdependence we’ll start with is that of body with mind, mind with body. So letting your body be however it is. And being interested, gently interested into what sensation or area of sensation – right now in this moment – is most prominent. There’s no wrong answer. What sensation is the most prominent for you in the body? Letting go of that now. Taking a breath. Aware and alert. Taking another breath if you like. Now, letting your mind be however it is. And being curious, gently curious into what mood or mindstate is present. Asking the question, sensing the answer, giving the mindstate a name. For me it’s a subtle kind of joy as I imagine you listening to this. What is it for you? There’s no wrong answer. What’s your mind like right now? Give it a name. Now, can you sense into the relationship between body and mind? Their interdependence. The body, it’s posture, it’s stance, it’s relaxation or lack thereof, a reflection of mind. Your mindstate influenced in turn by your body and your environment. Mental, physical, not two, not one. You can play with this by smiling. Smile, even if you don’t feel like it. Let your face, your body, lift up a smile. And notice any positive movement in your mind, any thoughts, any feelings. Letting that go. And now bringinging to mind a happy memory. The happiest you can possibly remember. And notice how your body responds. Mind changing body, body changing mind. Letting that go now too. Ok. Now let’s take that interdependence to the next level. And see if you can hold both body and mind in your awareness at the same time. Aware of how your body is as a whole. Aware of how your mind is. Together. United. Mind and body united in awareness, held in awareness. Body and mind. Identical twins. Separate but not really. Not one, not two. The knowing and that which is known, not two, not one. Interdependent. And full of life. A life full of choices, perhaps some scars. And with a bit of luck, adventure.
From the closing meditation
Jane McGonigal is a game designer and the author of the books "Reality is Broken" and "SuperBetter." In her work as a game designer, she focuses on using mobile and digital tech to channel positive attitudes. She's also the Chief Science Officer at SuperBetter Labs.
"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?"
Jane McGonigal
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JANE MCGONIGAL: Having an identical twin means being able to see someone who looks so similar to you, and to have such an intimacy growing up, that you can really see a parallel universe of choices that can be made or taken. I think we all have an imaginary twin – that alternate reality version of ourselves who made a different decision, or took a different path, or never had that injury or illness. We can all imagine living those alternate lives and occupying those different bodies. And we can either torment ourselves with that, or we can embrace and celebrate the creativity and intention that goes into being our unique selves. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: I’ve loved the work of this week’s storyteller for over a decade now. Her ideas about using all parts of our lives as a playground, of how games can be used to drive personal and social change, have been deeply influential to my work. But in today’s story, Jane McGonigal, game designer and author of Reality is Broken and SuperBetter, shares something very different and very personal. 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 before we hear from Jane, I’d like you to smile. When I think back to the couple of times I’ve met Jane in person over the years, what comes to mind is her energy and her joy. So smile, even if you don’t feel like it. Especially if you don’t feel like it. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MCGONIGAL: When I look in the mirror, I see the tear first. It’s not where you would expect it to be, not falling from an eye, or running down one cheek. Instead, it rests right between my eyes, or more precisely, between my eyebrows. Such a strange place for a tear. You shouldn’t be there. How did you get there? I’ve been asking this question since I was six. I’m now 41. I know the answer. This teardrop shape is a scar. One that I made all by myself, by scratching furiously at chicken pox that all the grown-ups told me not to scratch. That one little pox in the center of my face was the itchiest. I couldn’t keep my fingers off it. It scarred into the teardrop shape it keeps today. So yes, I know how it got there. But I guess what I was really asking, for so many years, was, “How did it get on my face, and not on hers?” Her. My identical twin sister, Kelly. When I say identical, I mean identical. We are mirror images – or at least we started out that way. It’s a family legend that for the first two years of our lives, our mom and dad kept a green ribbon tied around Kelly’s wrist so they wouldn’t mix us up. That’s how similar we were. “Green for Kelly green,” the color of the lush Irish landscape. See the green ribbon? That’s Kelly. No green ribbon? Must be Jane! Later, as we got older, she and I wondered if they really had mixed us up, once, twice, a dozen times. What if they’d lost track of that green ribbon? What if they tied it on the wrong wrist? I would ask my sister, “What if I’m really Kelly? What if you’re really Jane?” And we would sit there, pondering deeply, the almost nonsensical question: Am I still the same person, if really, I was supposed to be you? Looking at our family photo album of pictures taken in the years after the ribbon went away, Kelly and I still have to play a guessing game. “Is that you in the photo? Or is it me?” even our parents, looking at the same photos, can’t say for sure. On the back of some photos, in my dad’s scratchy handwriting, you can sometimes see written in ballpoint ink the year, followed by the location of the photo, and then one of our names ‘Jane’ or ‘Kelly’ followed by a question mark. Jane? Kelly? Who can say? Sometimes I think I interpreted that question mark as implying maybe it didn’t even matter which one of us it was. Maybe that’s why the first physical difference felt so important. That chicken pox scar, which I made it with my own two hands. It was the first visible sign, clear as day to anyone looking at us, that we were two different people. Throughout elementary and middle school, whenever we met someone new, and they would invariably say something like, “Wow! You’re so identical!” I would cheerfully point to my forehead and say, “Aha! But I’ve got this scar!” In other words, “See me! I’m Jane! Please don’t say it doesn’t matter which one is which!” But that question was always there. What did this scar mean? Why did I get one, and not Kelly? To my child mind, this was SUCH an important question. Why did she get to keep the perfect face, the best possible version of our DNA, while I would now have to be the imperfect version of us? When everyone sees you as the same, the tiniest difference can seem to hold so much meaning. GUNATILLAKE: You may not be a twin, but can you remember the first time when you felt different from the people around you, your family, your friends? Take a moment to observe how you see yourself relative to someone else you love. MCGONIGAL: I still try to make meaning of it today. I try to see in that six-year-old version of me the seeds of the unique individual I am now, to see some clues to who Kelly and I would become. I can say for sure that I’m more strongly goal-oriented than my twin sister. I’m the gamer, I’m the one drawn to competitive sports. I often think of myself in some kind of purposeful battle, whether I’m overcoming a concussion or working with the World Bank to try to stop climate change. Looking back to that early, identity-defining war with the chicken pox on my face, it feels like that scar grew out of some inner drive to fight, to go to battle, to best the virus in some strange, elemental way. I just could not let that itch win. Meanwhile, my sister Kelly, who blissfully resisted that same impulse, would grow up to earn a PhD in psychology and write a world-famous, bestselling book on the science of willpower. The secrets of which she clearly had already mastered at a very, very young age. Somehow, in those two different outcomes, scar and no scar, we were already becoming something other than identical, pushing against the destiny of our DNA, by making choices, exercising free will, forging our own unique lives. Or maybe, when the primary way people tell you apart from your twin is through physical scars, then you start to see yourself that way; it shapes your personality. Which comes first: the chicken or the egg? The chicken pox or the itch for adventure? As we got older, it wasn’t just the chicken pox scar anymore. In high school, I broke my nose – I was hit in the face with a softball pitch. It didn’t heal properly, so now I had a scar and a bump. I still look at her nose and think, “Ah, the nose I could have had.” My brain has scars too, from multiple concussions, one that was pretty serious. If you compared our brains in an FMRI machine, I’m sure you could see that difference, too. In many ways, I feel like the “after” picture in a bizarre “before” and “after” series, where the after is worse for the wear. After this injury, after this illness, after this trauma. It was our senior year of college, and I was studying in New York City, and Kelly was visiting me from Boston. She stopped by the office where I was interning, met all my colleagues, and as soon as she left, one of them came over to me, looking almost in awe, and said, “Wow, Jane. Your sister is gorgeous. I mean, she is STUNNING!” I wanted to say, “Wait, we’re identical twins. Why are you surprised by how she looks? It was clear what he meant. She was gorgeous, I wasn’t. And I wouldn’t say he was wrong. Some days, I do feel like I’m just the battered, beat up version of her, or I should say, the battered, beat-up version of us. On good days, I’m at peace with that. I feel like there's something about my personality that's just a little more like “bring it on, life, do you worst to me.” And that’s actually, I think, the best part of me. That desire to rise to the occasion, to seek out adventure, to not back off from battle. And maybe that difference was there at birth. GUNATILLAKE: What aspect of your personality is the best part of you? Dropping any thoughts of self-judgement just for now, can you name a quality that others really appreciate in you. And appreciating it yourself. No judgement, just recognition. MCGONIGAL: To me, that is a wondrous thing. That two people, born with identical DNA, raised in the same house, by the same parents, breathing the same air, eating the same food, could still somehow be two different people. We talk about the effects of nature versus nurture. But there is something else, a third thing, because despite sharing the same nature and sharing the same nurture, we exerted some unique soul-force and became who we are. Not who we were meant to be, but who we meant to be. The biggest, most profound difference in that before and after series that I play out in my mind, is that I became a parent and she didn’t. I have twin daughters now myself. it’s like the Einstein twin paradox where you send one identical twin into space, traveling at the speed of light, and the other twin stays on earth, and because of the theory of relativity, the space-traveling twin doesn't age and comes back to Earth and everybody, including their own twin, is 70 years older. I think that's what parenting is like. If you have the same DNA as somebody else and then you become a parent, for every one year they age, you age seven years. It’s just the constant physical and emotional stress, the lack of sleep, the constant caretaking, not having time to eat healthy and exercise as much, always being sick with every cold and virus that your kid catches. There's a very strange physical sensation, every time I see Kelly now, it's like looking in a funhouse mirror. A mirror that shows, more than ever, a different version of me, a me with more energy, more ability, a me I could have been, a me my DNA set me up to be. The act of having a child and becoming a parent, you're never the same. It changes how your brain works. It changes how your body responds to stress. I think a lot of people feel like when they become a parent, there's another version of themselves that they left behind to go on this journey. And how do you now accept that you're not at peak physicality? Or peak productivity? That's how I feel. I feel very underperforming in some areas of my life right now, because of the care and energy required as a parent. But then at the same time, I feel like I'm at peak love. Never in my life have I been so loving and put so much time and energy into that, and never in my life have I received so much love back. For me, the love that I’m feeling constantly everyday, the love I get to give and the love I get to receive, and the love that my husband and I get to experience together as a team, it’s worth the battle scars. Having an identical twin, you really see the toll of your life choices. And it’s not that you regret any of it, but you really are forced to look at how the choices you make change you. I'm sure Kelly has her own experience of that. I’m sure she doesn’t always feel like the more perfect version of me. I’m sure she sees her own scars, her own choices. My twins are fraternal and nobody mixes them up. One is already 3 inches taller than the other. They have different eye colors. And it’s not just physical. Their personalities are different. One of them is super extroverted. There might be only one other person in the room, but she’s lit up like she’s on the Broadway stage, performing to the last person in the back row of the balcony, every moment of the day. My other daughter is a listener. She asks amazing questions. She approaches the world like a scientist. My twins being fraternal is a totally different experience of twin-ness. I don't worry about them having to forcibly show the world that they are two unique people I don’t have to wait until one of them has a scar. They are already their own fully-formed unique selves – and maybe that's something that I didn't understand about my own twin-ness. What I know about them, that I didn’t know about myself, is that the differences I see in their personalities and bodies may be as temporary as the Kelly green ribbon my parents put on my sister’s wrist. I’m not going to define them in comparison to each other, because they’re always changing, always creating and recreating themselves. GUNATILLAKE: Feel your feet on the ground. Feel the air on your face. Watch the fluidity in your own self right now, sensations coming and going, thoughts coming and going. Is anything really fixed? MCGONIGAL: Having an identical twin means being able to see someone who looks so similar to you, and to have such an intimacy growing up, that you can really see a parallel universe of choices that can be made or taken. But having an identical other didn’t define me, because I think we all have an imaginary twin – that alternate reality version of ourselves who made a different decision, or took a different path, or never had that injury or illness. We can all imagine living those alternate lives and occupying those different bodies, and we can either torment ourselves with that, or we can embrace and celebrate the creativity and intention that goes into being our unique selves and bringing our unique selves into existence every day, physically, mentally, and in our relationships to others. We don’t have to live in a state of comparison to our imagined possible selves, or to anyone else for that matter. However you came to be who you are today, there is no other version of you. You created yourself, and no one else – identical DNA or not – could ever replicate the unique and wondrous version that you created, choice by choice and scar by scar and adventure by adventure. What I’ve learned is you can’t look to anyone else for a reflection of yourself. Your story is in your mirror, in your body, in your home, in your truth. GUNATILLAKE: To help me deepen my understanding of meditation, I spent a fair amount of time in my 20s travelling around the world learning from different teachers and styles. And when in Thailand I came across the saying: “same, same but different.” It’s one of those phrases which you hear everywhere, and even see on the occasional t-shirt. Jane’s story brought it back to my mind. Her and her sister: same, same but different. In the Zen tradition there’s the saying: not one, not two. Not one, not two. I love the mystery of those words, designed to point to the interdependency of things. And that’s the idea we’re going to play with in this short practice together. And the interdependence we’ll start with is that of body with mind, mind with body. So letting your body be however it is. And being interested, gently interested into what sensation or area of sensation – right now in this moment – is most prominent. There’s no wrong answer. What sensation is the most prominent for you in the body? Letting go of that now. Taking a breath. Aware and alert. Taking another breath if you like. Now, letting your mind be however it is. And being curious, gently curious into what mood or mindstate is present. Asking the question, sensing the answer, giving the mindstate a name. For me it’s a subtle kind of joy as I imagine you listening to this. What is it for you? There’s no wrong answer. What’s your mind like right now? Give it a name. Now, can you sense into the relationship between body and mind? Their interdependence. The body, it’s posture, it’s stance, it’s relaxation or lack thereof, a reflection of mind. Your mindstate influenced in turn by your body and your environment. Mental, physical, not two, not one. You can play with this by smiling. Smile, even if you don’t feel like it. Let your face, your body, lift up a smile. And notice any positive movement in your mind, any thoughts, any feelings. Letting that go. And now bringinging to mind a happy memory. The happiest you can possibly remember. And notice how your body responds. Mind changing body, body changing mind. Letting that go now too. Ok. Now let’s take that interdependence to the next level. And see if you can hold both body and mind in your awareness at the same time. Aware of how your body is as a whole. Aware of how your mind is. Together. United. Mind and body united in awareness, held in awareness. Body and mind. Identical twins. Separate but not really. Not one, not two. The knowing and that which is known, not two, not one. Interdependent. And full of life. A life full of choices, perhaps some scars. And with a bit of luck, adventure.
Acceptance
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Game designer and twin Jane McGonigal on the notion of similarity and divergence, of sharing not only DNA but talents, interests, personality – and where these likenesses diverge.
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Game designer and twin Jane McGonigal on the notion of similarity and divergence, of sharing not only DNA but talents, interests, personality – and where these likenesses diverge.
INSPIRATION
Finding my own reflection
JANE MCGONIGAL
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Episode Transcript
clarity
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
About Peter Sagal
Peter Sagal
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Peter Sagal
Episode Transcript
When NPR host Peter Sagal found himself with two free weeks – and in need of a healthy distraction – he decided to jump on his bike for a long solo trip out west. Though he had a destination in mind, what he found was not a way out, but a way into himself.
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PETER'S MEDITATIVE STORY
PETER'S MEDITATIVE STORY
PRESENCE
PETER SAGAL
Hitting the open road to find my way home
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When NPR host Peter Sagal found himself with two free weeks – and in need of a healthy distraction – he decided to jump on his bike for a long solo trip out west. Though he had a destination in mind, what he found was not a way out, but a way into himself.
Peter Sagal is a writer and host of the NPR game show "Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!" and the PBS special "Constitution USA with Peter Sagal." He's also the author of The Book of Vice: Very Naughty Things (and How to Do Them).
"See yourself in a bigger frame. Peter was just one little human moving through a landscape of endless trees and trees and trees. That view gave him perspective and space from his personal drama, which otherwise might have felt so constricting and overwhelming. So zoom out and imagine yourself, see yourself where you are. Just one human in a landscape full of so much stuff that is not your drama, not your storyline. If there’s peace here, enjoy it."
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From the closing meditation
PETER SAGAL: And yet, with all the necessity of paying perfect attention to what I’m doing, or maybe because of that, my thoughts still flow, in a more coherent way than they have in a while. My mind is also able to roam backwards and forwards over my life, past, present, and future. I think of my kids and what will happen to them. I remember a hundred moments from our lives together, a life which either has profoundly changed or perhaps even ended. I think of being alone in this moment – gloriously, completely, alone, my mind protected by a full-face helmet, enclosing myself with myself – and how long that solitude will last, and how long I might want it to. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Have you ever been on a motorbike? Even if you've not, it’s such a romantic notion. The freedom, the space, being so connected to both machine and nature at the same time. Peter Sagal is a long-time biker and host of NPR’s “Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me!”. Today, he shares a Meditative Story about a trip through the American Midwest which gave him the space that he needed – inside and out – to navigate a difficult time in his life. 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 brief guidance for a deeper connection to the story and what’s happening in your own experience as you listen. So before Peter begins, we’ll take a moment together. You might be moving while you listen to this, walking, in a car, on a train. If you’re moving, notice how you’re moving. Notice the change in what’s around you. And notice what, if anything, stays the same. If you’re still, maybe lying down or sitting, notice how you’re still. Enjoy that. And notice if there are any parts of your experience which are in movement. Your breathing. The air on your skin. The muscles in your face if you choose to smile. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. SAGAL: It is the summer of 2013. My marriage has recently broken up, and my hopes for an amicable, non-confrontational, and inexpensive split have been dashed like a watermelon falling from a great height. My soon-to-be ex-wife is taking the kids away for a trip, with myself pointedly not invited, and so I have two weeks off from work with nothing to occupy myself, and that in and of itself is a danger. Without anything I need to do, I tend to distract myself in a variety of unhealthy ways. With so much trouble swirling around, I know myself enough to know that I will do anything to avoid thinking about it. I’ll stare at the internet or TV screens or seek any other kind of distraction in order to not give myself a moment to confront what I’m facing. I look around for something to focus on. I see that the annual motorcycle rally in Sturgis, South Dakota, is happening right in the middle of my break. It’s a legendary event, attended by more than a 100,000 riders every year. Why not one more? There is no quieter place I know than the saddle of a motorcycle. Motorcycles themselves, of course, can be loud, although they’re not supposed to be as loud as the ones who pull up next to you at a stoplight and pierce your glass shell with their insecure roaring. A modern stock motorcycle, though, with its electronically controlled four stroke engine and street legal mufflers – like my 2013 Triumph Bonneville T-100 – sounds almost as polite as a family sedan. Riding it, the exhaust notes are hard to hear over the wind blowing past my helmet. All of this is why, in August of 2013, I pack some clothes into saddlebags, get onto my Triumph in Chicago, and head west. I need some peace and quiet to think. GUNATILLAKE: How about you? Are you going through anything right now which makes you want some peace and quiet to be still and reflect? If you do, then acknowledge that wish and take the next few moments to set the intention to gift yourself that time. SAGAL: I get a late start on the first day. I strap my bags to the seat behind me, put on my boots, helmet, and riding jacket, throw my leg over the bike, start the engine, and head off down the alley to the street. I feel protected, covered in leather, rip stop nylon, and a puncture proof casing for my head, but at the same time, of course, I’m extraordinarily vulnerable. This is how I’m going to travel for the next two weeks: excepting stops to sleep and eat, I’ll spend every moment directly beneath the open sky. To make up for my late start I hop onto the freeway to log some miles before dark. I quickly learn why I shouldn’t do this trip on freeways. On a motorcycle, you have none of the standard distractions from freeway monotony available in a car: no radio, no audiobooks, no phone calls, not even an open bag of snacks to dip into. At the same time, the riding itself is boring to the point of danger. You put the bike in the highest gear, you twist back the throttle, and spend hours with nothing to do but try to avoid hitting a piece of road debris or getting too close to the windy maelstrom every trailer truck creates in its wake. It seems unbelievable that being in constant danger of instant death can be dull, but it’s true. After that wearying first day, I am determined to make the rest of the trip on secondary roads. Riding a motorcycle requires your entire mind and body. Your right hand controls the throttle and front brake. The fingers of your left hand pull on a lever that engages the clutch. Your right foot presses on the rear brake, and the left foot operates the gear shift, pressing down or pulling up, by slipping the toe of your boot under the metal lever. Meanwhile, you lean into turns, shift your weight backward slightly when you brake, lower yourself behind the windshield when you speed up. For a practiced rider, all of these actions are unconscious but still demand your focused attention. But not all of it. Motorcycling is inherently dangerous, of course, and not just because something that might be an annoyance in a car is potentially fatal on a motorcycle. It’s also because even if you’re as careful as possible, whatever the opposite of reckless is – reckful? – you’re also vulnerable to other people’s mistakes. So we motorcyclists practice a discipline often called “total awareness.” You scan the road surface ahead, looking for debris or potholes, then the cross streets, checking for cars about to pull in front of you. If there’s a car in the lane beside you, you anticipate it suddenly switching lanes right into yours. You play out scenarios, first the disaster, then the complicated combination of twists, squeezes, and leans that will allow you, with luck, to avoid it. This is an extraordinary contrast to my daily life. Like most people, I’m rarely in any physical danger, or even exposed to the elements. I can then indulge, like so many of us do, in the luxury of obliviousness. I don’t notice what’s around me, because it can’t hurt me. I don’t think about the next corner because whatever’s around it will probably be the same as what’s on this side. So I am free to focus on… nothing. Distractions. Trivia. Why not? Nothing’s going to happen to me if I do. On the straight roads of the Great Plains west of Chicago, I’m alone more often than I’m dealing with traffic, and intersections are few and far between. So I monitor the road, upshift and downshift as needed, and I’m able, finally, to take in the world. You don’t know how isolated you are in a car until you ride the same road without the steel and glass cocoon. I see a thousand things along the roadside I never would have noticed – the varying heights of the corn fields on different farms, the peeling paint on the billboards in far too remote a location to be worth anyone covering up their past, and maybe last, paying advertiser. The lines of trees in the distance that I eventually figure out mark streams and canals. The businesses and homes and occasional weird interruptions of the common visual fabric – a fence festooned with bras, a water tower painted like a hot air balloon. It’s on a trip to a place a thousand miles away that, for the first time in years, I start to notice exactly where I am – even as, with each moment of awareness, I speed away to another square of pavement. I spend the night in Pierre, South Dakota, and then roll west, and I find myself in fields of sunflowers, spreading to the horizon on both sides. I pull over, remove my helmet, and walk out a few hundred yards into the rows of flowers. I stand there for a long while, looking in the same direction the flowers are looking, towards the morning sun. Bees buzz. Every now and then a car passes, and I bet the drivers are too distracted by whatever they’ve chosen to distract themselves with to notice the odd flower standing out in the middle of all the others. GUNATILLAKE: Imagine being there with Peter, alongside him. As you do, what details can you notice? What color are the flowers? Can you even catch their scent? Take three deep, full breaths and settle back into the scenery. SAGAL: Sturgis itself is kind of bust, at least for me. A hundred thousand people who’ve chosen to rebel by dressing, drinking, and partying exactly alike. Even with all the lights shining down, there’s nothing to see, and even with all the amusements on offer – mostly involving liquor and scantily clad women – there’s nothing to hold my attention. After one day, I roll on to take in something more interesting, meaning, nothing at all. The hills rise beyond Sturgis, and now I’m doing a different kind of riding. Where once I was constantly monitoring the road and my place on it, now the pavement becomes more active, so I do too. It rises and turns to the left, so I brake, downshift and position myself on the right side of the road. Then I lean into a smooth curve and exit the turn on the correct trajectory, smoothly accelerating which straightens the bike out, while I immediately plan for the next turn. With a few exceptions, there is nothing in modern life that requires absolutely all of our attention. Farmers sit in tractor cabs listening to the radio while the GPS systems make sure they plow in exact straight lines. Even airline pilots spend most of the flight amusing themselves while a computer flies the plane. Eventually, I get to the Rockies. I ascend up the Lolo Pass west of Missoula, Montana, get to the peak at about 4 pm, and then start descending Route 12 into Idaho, following the path of Lewis and Clark, who had worked their way west on the Crooked Fork river, in a ravine below this highway. For a city dweller, it’s a bit disorienting to look at a line of trees next to the road and realize that behind those trees are more trees, and more trees, that they are not the exception to the rule of this landscape. I am. There is nothing but forest between me and Idaho, 50 miles or so ahead, and I’m on a twisty mountain road with sunset just a few hours away. I don’t want to get caught trying to navigate the twists and turns only by headlight, so I need to make good time in order to find a place to sleep before dark. The danger is real, especially as it seems nobody else is dumb enough to attempt the descent this close to dark. If I crash, it might be hours before somebody comes along to find me. If I go over the side of the road, and into the ravine next to it, it might be days, or longer. After all, nobody has any idea where I am. And yet, with all the necessity of paying perfect attention to what I’m doing, or maybe because of that, my thoughts still flow, in a more coherent way than they have in a while. My mind is also able to roam backwards and forwards over my life, past, present and future. I think of my kids and what will happen to them. I remember a hundred moments from our lives together, a life which either has profoundly changed or perhaps even ended. I think of being alone in this moment – gloriously, completely alone, my mind protected by a full-face helmet, enclosing myself with myself – and how long that solitude will last, and how long I might want it to. Without a phone, without radio, without music, without food or drink, without anything but myself and this machine, I’m more alive, more aware than I‘ve been in years, or decades. Psychologists say that trauma imprints most vividly on our memory, and I imagine that has to do with the fact that potential threats trigger our survival instincts – our awareness heightens as we try to fend off or avoid whatever might harm us. So maybe this rolling mindfulness I’m experiencing, my thoughts rolling free inside of my helmet like a marble, is merely a related epiphenomenon – by riding a motorcycle, and subjecting myself to constant danger as long as I’m moving, I trick my brain into a constant state of threat-response, a heightened awareness, fueled by adrenaline, but one that doesn’t trigger a fearful panic response, as long as I keep the rubber side down, anyway. So as I navigate this beautiful road on an August evening, my mind and body working together without conscious thought, my mind roams to and fro in interior journeys that sometimes stray far from my physical one. This is my garden, my zen temple, my still, quiet room. And I'm averaging 50 miles an hour, downhill, on a mountain road with a cliff on one side and a ravine on the other. I cross into Idaho around 6 pm, and just as I start to think I might need to turn my bright headlights on, I find a riverside motel, with one room left for the evening and a diner, which specializes in pie. I park the bike, shed the helmet, gloves, and jacket, and take my notebook to dinner, so I can write down all that I've experienced while I eat. As it turns out, after a day of silence and constant motion, I have a lot to say. GUNATILLAKE: I really love the image that Peter draws out, of him hurtling down and around mountain roads, totally present to that experience but at the same time his thoughts rolling just as free. So I think it might be fun to do something similar. So if you’re up for that, begin by relaxing your shoulders, relaxing your face, breathing, smiling. Listening to this podcast, engaging with this short meditation practice is in its own way a little act of kindness to yourself. So why not appreciate that? Eyes open or eyes closed, whichever feels most appropriate and most safe, notice your posture. It might be sitting down like Peter, or it might be in a different position. However it is, notice it. Inhabit it, if that makes sense. And let’s be like Peter. He had his hands on the handlebars, connected to his bike. Where are your hands and what are they connected to? Drop your awareness, your attention into whatever sensations of touch and connection that exist in your hands right now. Whatever they’re in contact with, know it. Rest with those sensations. Now include your feet. Sitting back, Peter had his on the footpegs of his bike. While still sensitive to your hands contacting whatever they’re contacting, also include your feet. Bringing the contact of your feet on the ground into your awareness. Knowing that contact, just as it is. Your awareness, your attention resting and balanced with these four points, your hands, your feet. Can you feel all these four points at the same time? Make them the foundation of your awareness, your place of rest. If it helps, you can imagine Peter riding on his Triumph, doing the same. Even ride along side him if you like. Always resting in your hands and feet. On your handlebars and footpegs, whatever they may be for you. You may not have the wind rushing through your hair like Peter did, but what do you have? Notice the temperature of the air on your face. All the while keeping in touch with your hands and feet. Keeping in touch with your foundation. Now, if you’ve drifted away, reconnect with your feet and your hands. Establish that foundation, stable and connected. And let your mind roam free. Let your thoughts roll around. Watching the thoughts and ideas dance on the screen of your mind. All the while stable and connected to your body, through your hands and your feet. And to finish, see yourself in a bigger frame. Peter was just one little human moving through a landscape of endless trees and trees and trees. That view gave him perspective and space from his personal drama, which otherwise might have felt so constricting and overwhelming. So zoom out and imagine yourself, see yourself where you are. Just one human in a landscape full of so much stuff that is not your drama, not your storyline. If there’s peace here, enjoy it. And as Peter ended his day by writing up his experiences, why not do the same? Take a moment to review how that practice was for you, how the story made you feel. And if there’s any pie around, all the better.
From the closing meditation
Peter Sagal is a writer and host of the NPR game show "Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!" and the PBS special "Constitution USA with Peter Sagal." He's also the author of The Book of Vice: Very Naughty Things (and How to Do Them).
"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?"
Peter Sagal
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PETER SAGAL: And yet, with all the necessity of paying perfect attention to what I’m doing, or maybe because of that, my thoughts still flow, in a more coherent way than they have in a while. My mind is also able to roam backwards and forwards over my life, past, present, and future. I think of my kids and what will happen to them. I remember a hundred moments from our lives together, a life which either has profoundly changed or perhaps even ended. I think of being alone in this moment – gloriously, completely, alone, my mind protected by a full-face helmet, enclosing myself with myself – and how long that solitude will last, and how long I might want it to. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Have you ever been on a motorbike? Even if you've not, it’s such a romantic notion. The freedom, the space, being so connected to both machine and nature at the same time. Peter Sagal is a long-time biker and host of NPR’s “Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me!”. Today, he shares a Meditative Story about a trip through the American Midwest which gave him the space that he needed – inside and out – to navigate a difficult time in his life. 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 brief guidance for a deeper connection to the story and what’s happening in your own experience as you listen. So before Peter begins, we’ll take a moment together. You might be moving while you listen to this, walking, in a car, on a train. If you’re moving, notice how you’re moving. Notice the change in what’s around you. And notice what, if anything, stays the same. If you’re still, maybe lying down or sitting, notice how you’re still. Enjoy that. And notice if there are any parts of your experience which are in movement. Your breathing. The air on your skin. The muscles in your face if you choose to smile. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. SAGAL: It is the summer of 2013. My marriage has recently broken up, and my hopes for an amicable, non-confrontational, and inexpensive split have been dashed like a watermelon falling from a great height. My soon-to-be ex-wife is taking the kids away for a trip, with myself pointedly not invited, and so I have two weeks off from work with nothing to occupy myself, and that in and of itself is a danger. Without anything I need to do, I tend to distract myself in a variety of unhealthy ways. With so much trouble swirling around, I know myself enough to know that I will do anything to avoid thinking about it. I’ll stare at the internet or TV screens or seek any other kind of distraction in order to not give myself a moment to confront what I’m facing. I look around for something to focus on. I see that the annual motorcycle rally in Sturgis, South Dakota, is happening right in the middle of my break. It’s a legendary event, attended by more than a 100,000 riders every year. Why not one more? There is no quieter place I know than the saddle of a motorcycle. Motorcycles themselves, of course, can be loud, although they’re not supposed to be as loud as the ones who pull up next to you at a stoplight and pierce your glass shell with their insecure roaring. A modern stock motorcycle, though, with its electronically controlled four stroke engine and street legal mufflers – like my 2013 Triumph Bonneville T-100 – sounds almost as polite as a family sedan. Riding it, the exhaust notes are hard to hear over the wind blowing past my helmet. All of this is why, in August of 2013, I pack some clothes into saddlebags, get onto my Triumph in Chicago, and head west. I need some peace and quiet to think. GUNATILLAKE: How about you? Are you going through anything right now which makes you want some peace and quiet to be still and reflect? If you do, then acknowledge that wish and take the next few moments to set the intention to gift yourself that time. SAGAL: I get a late start on the first day. I strap my bags to the seat behind me, put on my boots, helmet, and riding jacket, throw my leg over the bike, start the engine, and head off down the alley to the street. I feel protected, covered in leather, rip stop nylon, and a puncture proof casing for my head, but at the same time, of course, I’m extraordinarily vulnerable. This is how I’m going to travel for the next two weeks: excepting stops to sleep and eat, I’ll spend every moment directly beneath the open sky. To make up for my late start I hop onto the freeway to log some miles before dark. I quickly learn why I shouldn’t do this trip on freeways. On a motorcycle, you have none of the standard distractions from freeway monotony available in a car: no radio, no audiobooks, no phone calls, not even an open bag of snacks to dip into. At the same time, the riding itself is boring to the point of danger. You put the bike in the highest gear, you twist back the throttle, and spend hours with nothing to do but try to avoid hitting a piece of road debris or getting too close to the windy maelstrom every trailer truck creates in its wake. It seems unbelievable that being in constant danger of instant death can be dull, but it’s true. After that wearying first day, I am determined to make the rest of the trip on secondary roads. Riding a motorcycle requires your entire mind and body. Your right hand controls the throttle and front brake. The fingers of your left hand pull on a lever that engages the clutch. Your right foot presses on the rear brake, and the left foot operates the gear shift, pressing down or pulling up, by slipping the toe of your boot under the metal lever. Meanwhile, you lean into turns, shift your weight backward slightly when you brake, lower yourself behind the windshield when you speed up. For a practiced rider, all of these actions are unconscious but still demand your focused attention. But not all of it. Motorcycling is inherently dangerous, of course, and not just because something that might be an annoyance in a car is potentially fatal on a motorcycle. It’s also because even if you’re as careful as possible, whatever the opposite of reckless is – reckful? – you’re also vulnerable to other people’s mistakes. So we motorcyclists practice a discipline often called “total awareness.” You scan the road surface ahead, looking for debris or potholes, then the cross streets, checking for cars about to pull in front of you. If there’s a car in the lane beside you, you anticipate it suddenly switching lanes right into yours. You play out scenarios, first the disaster, then the complicated combination of twists, squeezes, and leans that will allow you, with luck, to avoid it. This is an extraordinary contrast to my daily life. Like most people, I’m rarely in any physical danger, or even exposed to the elements. I can then indulge, like so many of us do, in the luxury of obliviousness. I don’t notice what’s around me, because it can’t hurt me. I don’t think about the next corner because whatever’s around it will probably be the same as what’s on this side. So I am free to focus on… nothing. Distractions. Trivia. Why not? Nothing’s going to happen to me if I do. On the straight roads of the Great Plains west of Chicago, I’m alone more often than I’m dealing with traffic, and intersections are few and far between. So I monitor the road, upshift and downshift as needed, and I’m able, finally, to take in the world. You don’t know how isolated you are in a car until you ride the same road without the steel and glass cocoon. I see a thousand things along the roadside I never would have noticed – the varying heights of the corn fields on different farms, the peeling paint on the billboards in far too remote a location to be worth anyone covering up their past, and maybe last, paying advertiser. The lines of trees in the distance that I eventually figure out mark streams and canals. The businesses and homes and occasional weird interruptions of the common visual fabric – a fence festooned with bras, a water tower painted like a hot air balloon. It’s on a trip to a place a thousand miles away that, for the first time in years, I start to notice exactly where I am – even as, with each moment of awareness, I speed away to another square of pavement. I spend the night in Pierre, South Dakota, and then roll west, and I find myself in fields of sunflowers, spreading to the horizon on both sides. I pull over, remove my helmet, and walk out a few hundred yards into the rows of flowers. I stand there for a long while, looking in the same direction the flowers are looking, towards the morning sun. Bees buzz. Every now and then a car passes, and I bet the drivers are too distracted by whatever they’ve chosen to distract themselves with to notice the odd flower standing out in the middle of all the others. GUNATILLAKE: Imagine being there with Peter, alongside him. As you do, what details can you notice? What color are the flowers? Can you even catch their scent? Take three deep, full breaths and settle back into the scenery. SAGAL: Sturgis itself is kind of bust, at least for me. A hundred thousand people who’ve chosen to rebel by dressing, drinking, and partying exactly alike. Even with all the lights shining down, there’s nothing to see, and even with all the amusements on offer – mostly involving liquor and scantily clad women – there’s nothing to hold my attention. After one day, I roll on to take in something more interesting, meaning, nothing at all. The hills rise beyond Sturgis, and now I’m doing a different kind of riding. Where once I was constantly monitoring the road and my place on it, now the pavement becomes more active, so I do too. It rises and turns to the left, so I brake, downshift and position myself on the right side of the road. Then I lean into a smooth curve and exit the turn on the correct trajectory, smoothly accelerating which straightens the bike out, while I immediately plan for the next turn. With a few exceptions, there is nothing in modern life that requires absolutely all of our attention. Farmers sit in tractor cabs listening to the radio while the GPS systems make sure they plow in exact straight lines. Even airline pilots spend most of the flight amusing themselves while a computer flies the plane. Eventually, I get to the Rockies. I ascend up the Lolo Pass west of Missoula, Montana, get to the peak at about 4 pm, and then start descending Route 12 into Idaho, following the path of Lewis and Clark, who had worked their way west on the Crooked Fork river, in a ravine below this highway. For a city dweller, it’s a bit disorienting to look at a line of trees next to the road and realize that behind those trees are more trees, and more trees, that they are not the exception to the rule of this landscape. I am. There is nothing but forest between me and Idaho, 50 miles or so ahead, and I’m on a twisty mountain road with sunset just a few hours away. I don’t want to get caught trying to navigate the twists and turns only by headlight, so I need to make good time in order to find a place to sleep before dark. The danger is real, especially as it seems nobody else is dumb enough to attempt the descent this close to dark. If I crash, it might be hours before somebody comes along to find me. If I go over the side of the road, and into the ravine next to it, it might be days, or longer. After all, nobody has any idea where I am. And yet, with all the necessity of paying perfect attention to what I’m doing, or maybe because of that, my thoughts still flow, in a more coherent way than they have in a while. My mind is also able to roam backwards and forwards over my life, past, present and future. I think of my kids and what will happen to them. I remember a hundred moments from our lives together, a life which either has profoundly changed or perhaps even ended. I think of being alone in this moment – gloriously, completely alone, my mind protected by a full-face helmet, enclosing myself with myself – and how long that solitude will last, and how long I might want it to. Without a phone, without radio, without music, without food or drink, without anything but myself and this machine, I’m more alive, more aware than I‘ve been in years, or decades. Psychologists say that trauma imprints most vividly on our memory, and I imagine that has to do with the fact that potential threats trigger our survival instincts – our awareness heightens as we try to fend off or avoid whatever might harm us. So maybe this rolling mindfulness I’m experiencing, my thoughts rolling free inside of my helmet like a marble, is merely a related epiphenomenon – by riding a motorcycle, and subjecting myself to constant danger as long as I’m moving, I trick my brain into a constant state of threat-response, a heightened awareness, fueled by adrenaline, but one that doesn’t trigger a fearful panic response, as long as I keep the rubber side down, anyway. So as I navigate this beautiful road on an August evening, my mind and body working together without conscious thought, my mind roams to and fro in interior journeys that sometimes stray far from my physical one. This is my garden, my zen temple, my still, quiet room. And I'm averaging 50 miles an hour, downhill, on a mountain road with a cliff on one side and a ravine on the other. I cross into Idaho around 6 pm, and just as I start to think I might need to turn my bright headlights on, I find a riverside motel, with one room left for the evening and a diner, which specializes in pie. I park the bike, shed the helmet, gloves, and jacket, and take my notebook to dinner, so I can write down all that I've experienced while I eat. As it turns out, after a day of silence and constant motion, I have a lot to say. GUNATILLAKE: I really love the image that Peter draws out, of him hurtling down and around mountain roads, totally present to that experience but at the same time his thoughts rolling just as free. So I think it might be fun to do something similar. So if you’re up for that, begin by relaxing your shoulders, relaxing your face, breathing, smiling. Listening to this podcast, engaging with this short meditation practice is in its own way a little act of kindness to yourself. So why not appreciate that? Eyes open or eyes closed, whichever feels most appropriate and most safe, notice your posture. It might be sitting down like Peter, or it might be in a different position. However it is, notice it. Inhabit it, if that makes sense. And let’s be like Peter. He had his hands on the handlebars, connected to his bike. Where are your hands and what are they connected to? Drop your awareness, your attention into whatever sensations of touch and connection that exist in your hands right now. Whatever they’re in contact with, know it. Rest with those sensations. Now include your feet. Sitting back, Peter had his on the footpegs of his bike. While still sensitive to your hands contacting whatever they’re contacting, also include your feet. Bringing the contact of your feet on the ground into your awareness. Knowing that contact, just as it is. Your awareness, your attention resting and balanced with these four points, your hands, your feet. Can you feel all these four points at the same time? Make them the foundation of your awareness, your place of rest. If it helps, you can imagine Peter riding on his Triumph, doing the same. Even ride along side him if you like. Always resting in your hands and feet. On your handlebars and footpegs, whatever they may be for you. You may not have the wind rushing through your hair like Peter did, but what do you have? Notice the temperature of the air on your face. All the while keeping in touch with your hands and feet. Keeping in touch with your foundation. Now, if you’ve drifted away, reconnect with your feet and your hands. Establish that foundation, stable and connected. And let your mind roam free. Let your thoughts roll around. Watching the thoughts and ideas dance on the screen of your mind. All the while stable and connected to your body, through your hands and your feet. And to finish, see yourself in a bigger frame. Peter was just one little human moving through a landscape of endless trees and trees and trees. That view gave him perspective and space from his personal drama, which otherwise might have felt so constricting and overwhelming. So zoom out and imagine yourself, see yourself where you are. Just one human in a landscape full of so much stuff that is not your drama, not your storyline. If there’s peace here, enjoy it. And as Peter ended his day by writing up his experiences, why not do the same? Take a moment to review how that practice was for you, how the story made you feel. And if there’s any pie around, all the better.
PRESENCE
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
NPR host Peter Sagal shares the story of a motorcycle trip he took through the middle of America – and how it gave him the space he needed to navigate.
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NPR host Peter Sagal shares the story of a motorcycle trip he took through the middle of America – and how it gave him the space he needed to navigate.
INSPIRATION
Hitting the open road to find my way home
PETER SAGAL
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FOCUS
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
About Josh Radnor
Josh Radnor
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Josh Radnor
Episode Transcript
Josh Radnor is an actor, filmmaker, and musician. But that's now. Back when he was an unsure sixteen-year-old growing up in Ohio, just discovering his love of acting, he never believed it could be his life. That is until a guidance counselor asked him to promise to be true to himself.
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JOSH'S MEDITATIVE STORY
JOSH'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Inspiration
Josh Radnor
Finding permission to pursue my own dreams
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Josh Radnor is an actor, filmmaker, and musician. But that's now. Back when he was an unsure sixteen-year-old growing up in Ohio, just discovering his love of acting, he never believed it could be his life. That is until a guidance counselor asked him to promise to be true to himself.
Josh Radnor is an actor, filmmaker, and musician. He has starred in the Emmy Award-winning "How I Met Your Mother," and the Tony Award nominated play "Disgraced." He made his writing and directorial debut with "Happythankyoumoreplease," which won the Sundance Film Festival Audience Award and was nominated for the Grand Jury Prize.
Invite your awareness to just rest with sensations of contact. Relaxed. Open. Permissive. As if being aware of these sensations, knowing them, soaking into them, is the most important thing you could be doing right now. There may not seem to be much to it. But this mindfulness, this being present and alive to what is happening right now, is the atom from which the whole universe of meditation, of contemplative practice is built.
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From the closing meditation
JOSH RADNOR: Of the three guidance counselors at the high school, Mrs. Oreski was the one to get. She had a special feel for the teenage mind – the insecurity, the false bravado, the wanting to simultaneously stand out and disappear. One sensed her allegiance to be wholly with the students and not the administration. Everything she said seemed to be delivered with a wink, a reassuring squeeze of the arm or pat on the back. Her whole persona seemed to whisper, “It’s going to be okay.” Which, really, might be all anyone would ever need to say to a teenager. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Sometimes all we need are a few comforting words. Spoken at the right time, they can change the course of our life. I wonder if anything like that has happened to you? It certainly has for me. Actor, filmmaker, and musician Josh Radnor is perhaps best known for his lead role in the Emmy award-winning show “How I Met Your Mother”. And in this week’s episode he shares a story from a vulnerable time in his life when what he most needed was a nudge – a truth pointed out that was so close to him he couldn’t quite see it. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you find a moment of calm 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 share an observation. My hope is that these prompts will help you experience Josh’s story more deeply. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. RADNOR: This is what I remember: The slashes of lipstick blasted across her front teeth like graffiti. Hair so fiery red it almost matched her lipstick, parted in the middle and feathered to the sides. What sitting in her office felt like, that little nook tucked away from the clang of gossip and lockers. Her reassurance with each visit that whatever we discussed would never leave that room. And how I believed her. And the last thing she taught me, when she reappeared at the school, unsteady and pale, for one final week after a long, curious absence: When folding paper with two folds, for business envelopes, leave one edge slightly long so the reader can grab the lip of the longer end to shake the letter open. To this day, on the increasingly rare occasions I fold an actual letter, it’s impossible for me not to think about this. And her. Bexley, Ohio is a small, well-to-do neighborhood in Columbus, just east of downtown. The blocks are square, the streets are tree-lined, and the Fourth of July parade has to be seen to be believed. It’s a safe and warm place to grow up, but there’s also a faint whiff of self-satisfaction about the town, a largely unspoken belief that its residents are the luckiest people in the world, and how sad for those people who have to live elsewhere in other sad, non-Bexley towns. That said – and this complicates one’s recollections – it also is really special, the kind of place you bring friends to years later and they look around and say, “You actually grew up here?” There are fireflies in the summer and gorgeous snowfalls in the winter. Almost all of my friends’ parents are still married. Rubino’s, the best pizza place on the entire planet, is there. There are three unbelievably great ice cream shops all within walking distance of each other. For all its small town sweetness, the public high school was a fiercely socially competitive place, stratified in all the clichéd suburban ways. The transition to Bexley my freshman year from the womb-like Jewish day school where I’d spent the previous nine years was harrowing. Gone were the mandatory yarmulke and tzitzit. In their place came an intense longing to dress right and say the right things and hang out with the right people. Simply put: I wanted to be cool. And with my oversized ears, more-than-occasionally pimply chin, and can’t-do-much-with-it Jewish head of hair, I was terrified I wasn’t. My first year of high school I was never able to shake some vague terror that a reputation-destroying event might be just around the next corner. GUNATILLAKE: Can you see Josh here? Walking the corridors, sitting in class, wrapped up in his desire to be cool. What about you? Is there a way you want to be seen by the world? Or are you ok with how things are? RADNOR: One afternoon during my sophomore year, my friend Debbie Shell tells me she wants to audition for the chorus of “Oklahoma”, the Spring musical, but she’s nervous and wonders if I’ll come to the auditions in the auditorium after school and sit with her. I say, “Yeah, sure, why not?” Sitting in the theater next to Debbie, I watch student after student sing along to plunked out notes on the piano and read short sections from the script, and something fires off in me: These guys aren’t that great at this and I think I can do this better than them. I’m slightly embarrassed of this thought; it feels arrogant and uncharitable. But it also feels true. And then, out of nowhere, whoever’s running the auditions points at me and asks if I’m going to audition. As if an invisible hand grabs ahold of my shirt collar and pulls me forward, I find myself hopping up onto the stage and singing scales along with the music director. And then I read a bit from the script. I’m called back for the next day’s second round of auditions where we read and sing some more. The final cast list is posted the following day: WILL PARKER – Josh Radnor “Oklahoma” is fun but I’m terribly green as a performer. I love the experience, but the stage doesn’t truly sink its hooks into me until the following year when I’m cast as the Emcee in “Cabaret.” For about a month before auditions, until opening night, I obsess over the Broadway original cast album of “Cabaret”, the CD of which I check out and re-check out of the Bexley Public Library for months. Whenever my parents and sisters are gone and I have the house to myself, I convert the living room, which houses the family stereo, into a makeshift stage, singing loudly along to Joel Grey’s mysterious, nasal-voiced Emcee, and trying out my new moves. When my dancing and singing spin me into the adjacent dining room, I catch sight of myself in the mirrored credenza which holds a menorah, Shabbos candle holders, an ornate Kiddush cup, a Seder plate, and other assorted Judaica. And then it hits me: a sixteen-year-old discovering, for the first time, his talent for performance. Who knew I could be so bold and free and expressive? Who knew I could sing on pitch and move with some grace and showbiz pizzazz with a cane and a smirk? Who knew I could do such a fantastic Joel Grey impersonation? It feels so natural to me, less like acquiring a new skill than remembering one. That my whole performance is basically an outright rip-off of Joel Grey’s take on the character – minus the sexual ambiguity which, suburban teen that I am, I know nothing of – doesn’t really matter. Somehow I manage to bring a hint of professional polish to that high school auditorium. But it’s bigger than that. Tuxedo-clad, face covered in white make-up, hair slickly parted in the middle, jumping around a creaky stage imitating Joel Grey shifts something for me. GUNATILLAKE: If you can picture it, there’s a relaxation, a freedom in Josh's performance. In your body right now where can you most notice tension? Your shoulders, your face, your hands? Notice it, really feel it, feel into it. And let go. Fall into a freedom, a looseness in you. RADNOR: At one of the performances my parents are seated front row center. There’s a bit where I walk across a thin wooden plank over the orchestra pit towards the audience and that night I sit in an empty seat next to my parents. I kind of just stare at them, slightly menacingly, and it gets a big laugh as a good percentage of the audience know who these people are and why I’ve singled them out. I don’t know why that moment has stayed with me. My parents are delighted, of course, but maybe it has something to do with a subtle shift in power. I suddenly hold the cards and control the moment. I’m the Emcee after all. Everyone is a guest at my party, including my parents. Playing the part gives me a different sense of agency, a newfound confidence. I feel some internal light click on. I’m suddenly more awake. After the show, I see my guidance counselor Mrs. Oreski pushing her way through a swarm of well-wishers and beaming parents. When she reaches me she grabs my arm and leans into my ear. No congratulations or compliments are offered. Only this: “You’re to come see me first thing Monday morning before homeroom.” Her tone is stern and insistent. I know she means business. And then she walks away. Of the three guidance counselors at the high school, Mrs. Oreski was the one to get. She had a special feel for the teenage mind – the insecurity, the false bravado, the wanting to simultaneously stand out and disappear. One sensed her allegiance to be wholly with the students and not the administration. Everything she said seemed to be delivered with a wink, a reassuring squeeze of the arm, or pat on the back. Her whole persona seemed to whisper “It’s going to be okay.” Which, really, might be all anyone would ever need to say to a teenager. So there I am in her office the following Monday before homeroom, as instructed. No small talk, no questions. Simply an order: “You are never to stop acting. Even if you become a lawyer and do community theater, you must keep acting.” And then she looks at me with a steeliness I’m unaccustomed to and says: “Promise me.” I promise. How had she known? I had told no one. But it was true: I didn’t want to stop acting, ever. Surely I would have to though. Adulthood as I understood it was pretty much the opposite of an extracurricular activity. It was jobs and suits and bills and mortgages laced with an air of frustration and regret. No sane person – from a good family in Bexley, Ohio, no less – made their living as a stage actor. I hadn’t given much thought to a career at that point, but I guess I kind of half-assumed I’d be a lawyer like my father, not owing to any great interest in or love of the law but stemming more from a kind of professional inertia. This is what a kid from my background, in possession of my particular skill set grows up to be. Maybe Mrs. Oreski assumed that too, and truly felt the community theater scene would be much diminished absent my contributions. But I’ve also wondered if she was trying to say something without quite saying it, speaking in a kind of suburban guidance counselor code. Yes, I wanted to sing and act, but that urge was competing with a desire no less strong to simply fit in. Wanting to be an actor was an ambition so culturally at odds with what my peers were up to, with what I thought my community and family expected of me. All I knew – and this was something I simply couldn’t deny – was that I’d never felt so alive as when I stepped out onto that stage. I called it magic, this sense Mrs. Oreski had. But I now understand that she had simply seen me. She had seen something ignite in me, that I’d stepped into a different, upgraded, more fully expressed version of myself, and she was simply doing her job: reflecting back to me what she had seen. When we’re too young to trust ourselves we may need to borrow other people’s faith in us until we develop some of our own. We need another set of eyes to see ourselves clearly, because our own vision is fractured or busted or not yet fully formed. Mrs. Oreski was the set of eyes I needed in that moment. She called it out and named it. Before I could even admit it fully to myself – or even knew what this thing was – she gave voice to it. By late winter of my senior year – less than a year after my Monday morning visit to her office – Mrs. Oreski died by taking her own life. Sitting at her memorial, sandwiched between my parents, I felt safe enough to cry. Loss had left my life largely untouched until that moment; Mrs. Oreski’s death upended some unspoken belief I had about “the way things should go” and taught me some quick and necessary lessons: That madness, depression, and absurdity are facts and features of life. That not everything will get fixed in the end. And that tragedy will not always be confined to newspapers or the local news telecasts or the unlucky family down the block. I recently found a picture of her online from her early teaching days in 1971. The accompanying article was about changing dress codes at the school. They’re all wearing slacks in the photo; the fight to wear them was – according to the article – hard-won. She looks terrific, posed in front of a blackboard with four students from a high school in southwestern Pennsylvania, all awkwardly holding books, papers, and binders. I kept staring at Mrs. Oreski in the picture: Her half-grin, the wide lapels on her entirely awesome period-appropriate outfit, her hair pulled back revealing a face unlined with worry, no awareness of the trials ahead or that her life would be cut short by her own hand. But also no idea of the many fragile teenagers she would go on to help and inspire. An additional sting to the loss: all the many teenagers over the years who never got to receive that help and inspiration. But it’s not her death which dominates my memory. It’s the image of us that morning in her office – 28 years ago – when she told an insecure sixteen-year-old that he could be excellent at something. She gave me permission to do an impossible thing. She believed in me before I believed in myself. I’ve often wondered if she knew, somehow, that she’d be going away. And that before she did, she made sure to whisper sacred and necessary words into my oversized teenaged ears: “You are never to stop acting.” GUNATILLAKE: I love the part of Josh’s story where Mrs Oreski gives him the advice which goes on and inspires the direction of his life. And even more, I love the way he describes it: Mrs. Oreski acting as another set of eyes, knowing what Josh needs in that moment – even if he doesn’t – and naming it. In certain meditation traditions, there’s a special name for this: pointing-out instructions, advice and teachings which nudge you to see the thing that’s right there in front of your face but for various reasons you’re not seeing. So to honor Mrs. Oreski – and of course, Josh – I thought we’d have a little pointing out instructions ourselves. However your body is, wherever it is, become aware of the sensations of where your body touches the earth. If you’re standing or walking, become aware of your feet. If sitting, you can also include your seat. If you’re lying down just let your awareness rest in the most obvious sensations of your body contacting the surface beneath you. This is mindfulness. This is knowing what is happening while it is happening. Invite your awareness to just rest with these sensations of contact. Relaxed. Open. Permissive. As if being aware of these sensations, knowing them, soaking into them, is the most important thing you could be doing right now. There may not seem to be much to it. But this mindfulness, this being present and alive to what is happening right now, is the atom from which the whole universe of meditation, of contemplative practice is built. Letting the breath be steady. Letting the body be steady. Letting more and more of your sensations of contacting the earth fill up your awareness. Simple mindfulness. Total mindfulness. Stay here. Stay here, aware of the touch of the Earth. What knows? What is aware? These questions are a way to move the object of your awareness to the background and instead, notice the awareness itself. What is it like? What is it? What knows? Because at its heart, the invitation of meditation is to never stop exploring. You are never to stop exploring. Maybe Josh’s fond story of Mrs. Oreski reminded you of someone in your life, a wise friend, who pointed to something in you which you had been ignoring or putting to one side. If so, bring that person, that moment to mind, and reflect on how grateful you are for what they said to you. And make the intention – if you like – to do the same to someone else in your life. To be Mrs. Oreski to a different Josh. Is there someone you know who can’t quite see how brilliant they are? If so, set the intention, when you next see them, to tell them. That’s all. Who knows – it might just be the thing to send their life into a new direction, just as it did for Josh.
From the closing meditation
Josh Radnor is an actor, filmmaker, and musician. He has starred in the Emmy Award-winning "How I Met Your Mother," and the Tony Award nominated play "Disgraced." He made his writing and directorial debut with "Happythankyoumoreplease," which won the Sundance Film Festival Audience Award and was nominated for the Grand Jury Prize.
"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?"
Josh Radnor
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
JOSH RADNOR: Of the three guidance counselors at the high school, Mrs. Oreski was the one to get. She had a special feel for the teenage mind – the insecurity, the false bravado, the wanting to simultaneously stand out and disappear. One sensed her allegiance to be wholly with the students and not the administration. Everything she said seemed to be delivered with a wink, a reassuring squeeze of the arm or pat on the back. Her whole persona seemed to whisper, “It’s going to be okay.” Which, really, might be all anyone would ever need to say to a teenager. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Sometimes all we need are a few comforting words. Spoken at the right time, they can change the course of our life. I wonder if anything like that has happened to you? It certainly has for me. Actor, filmmaker, and musician Josh Radnor is perhaps best known for his lead role in the Emmy award-winning show “How I Met Your Mother”. And in this week’s episode he shares a story from a vulnerable time in his life when what he most needed was a nudge – a truth pointed out that was so close to him he couldn’t quite see it. In this series, we blend immersive, first-person stories with mindfulness prompts to help you find a moment of calm 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 share an observation. My hope is that these prompts will help you experience Josh’s story more deeply. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. RADNOR: This is what I remember: The slashes of lipstick blasted across her front teeth like graffiti. Hair so fiery red it almost matched her lipstick, parted in the middle and feathered to the sides. What sitting in her office felt like, that little nook tucked away from the clang of gossip and lockers. Her reassurance with each visit that whatever we discussed would never leave that room. And how I believed her. And the last thing she taught me, when she reappeared at the school, unsteady and pale, for one final week after a long, curious absence: When folding paper with two folds, for business envelopes, leave one edge slightly long so the reader can grab the lip of the longer end to shake the letter open. To this day, on the increasingly rare occasions I fold an actual letter, it’s impossible for me not to think about this. And her. Bexley, Ohio is a small, well-to-do neighborhood in Columbus, just east of downtown. The blocks are square, the streets are tree-lined, and the Fourth of July parade has to be seen to be believed. It’s a safe and warm place to grow up, but there’s also a faint whiff of self-satisfaction about the town, a largely unspoken belief that its residents are the luckiest people in the world, and how sad for those people who have to live elsewhere in other sad, non-Bexley towns. That said – and this complicates one’s recollections – it also is really special, the kind of place you bring friends to years later and they look around and say, “You actually grew up here?” There are fireflies in the summer and gorgeous snowfalls in the winter. Almost all of my friends’ parents are still married. Rubino’s, the best pizza place on the entire planet, is there. There are three unbelievably great ice cream shops all within walking distance of each other. For all its small town sweetness, the public high school was a fiercely socially competitive place, stratified in all the clichéd suburban ways. The transition to Bexley my freshman year from the womb-like Jewish day school where I’d spent the previous nine years was harrowing. Gone were the mandatory yarmulke and tzitzit. In their place came an intense longing to dress right and say the right things and hang out with the right people. Simply put: I wanted to be cool. And with my oversized ears, more-than-occasionally pimply chin, and can’t-do-much-with-it Jewish head of hair, I was terrified I wasn’t. My first year of high school I was never able to shake some vague terror that a reputation-destroying event might be just around the next corner. GUNATILLAKE: Can you see Josh here? Walking the corridors, sitting in class, wrapped up in his desire to be cool. What about you? Is there a way you want to be seen by the world? Or are you ok with how things are? RADNOR: One afternoon during my sophomore year, my friend Debbie Shell tells me she wants to audition for the chorus of “Oklahoma”, the Spring musical, but she’s nervous and wonders if I’ll come to the auditions in the auditorium after school and sit with her. I say, “Yeah, sure, why not?” Sitting in the theater next to Debbie, I watch student after student sing along to plunked out notes on the piano and read short sections from the script, and something fires off in me: These guys aren’t that great at this and I think I can do this better than them. I’m slightly embarrassed of this thought; it feels arrogant and uncharitable. But it also feels true. And then, out of nowhere, whoever’s running the auditions points at me and asks if I’m going to audition. As if an invisible hand grabs ahold of my shirt collar and pulls me forward, I find myself hopping up onto the stage and singing scales along with the music director. And then I read a bit from the script. I’m called back for the next day’s second round of auditions where we read and sing some more. The final cast list is posted the following day: WILL PARKER – Josh Radnor “Oklahoma” is fun but I’m terribly green as a performer. I love the experience, but the stage doesn’t truly sink its hooks into me until the following year when I’m cast as the Emcee in “Cabaret.” For about a month before auditions, until opening night, I obsess over the Broadway original cast album of “Cabaret”, the CD of which I check out and re-check out of the Bexley Public Library for months. Whenever my parents and sisters are gone and I have the house to myself, I convert the living room, which houses the family stereo, into a makeshift stage, singing loudly along to Joel Grey’s mysterious, nasal-voiced Emcee, and trying out my new moves. When my dancing and singing spin me into the adjacent dining room, I catch sight of myself in the mirrored credenza which holds a menorah, Shabbos candle holders, an ornate Kiddush cup, a Seder plate, and other assorted Judaica. And then it hits me: a sixteen-year-old discovering, for the first time, his talent for performance. Who knew I could be so bold and free and expressive? Who knew I could sing on pitch and move with some grace and showbiz pizzazz with a cane and a smirk? Who knew I could do such a fantastic Joel Grey impersonation? It feels so natural to me, less like acquiring a new skill than remembering one. That my whole performance is basically an outright rip-off of Joel Grey’s take on the character – minus the sexual ambiguity which, suburban teen that I am, I know nothing of – doesn’t really matter. Somehow I manage to bring a hint of professional polish to that high school auditorium. But it’s bigger than that. Tuxedo-clad, face covered in white make-up, hair slickly parted in the middle, jumping around a creaky stage imitating Joel Grey shifts something for me. GUNATILLAKE: If you can picture it, there’s a relaxation, a freedom in Josh's performance. In your body right now where can you most notice tension? Your shoulders, your face, your hands? Notice it, really feel it, feel into it. And let go. Fall into a freedom, a looseness in you. RADNOR: At one of the performances my parents are seated front row center. There’s a bit where I walk across a thin wooden plank over the orchestra pit towards the audience and that night I sit in an empty seat next to my parents. I kind of just stare at them, slightly menacingly, and it gets a big laugh as a good percentage of the audience know who these people are and why I’ve singled them out. I don’t know why that moment has stayed with me. My parents are delighted, of course, but maybe it has something to do with a subtle shift in power. I suddenly hold the cards and control the moment. I’m the Emcee after all. Everyone is a guest at my party, including my parents. Playing the part gives me a different sense of agency, a newfound confidence. I feel some internal light click on. I’m suddenly more awake. After the show, I see my guidance counselor Mrs. Oreski pushing her way through a swarm of well-wishers and beaming parents. When she reaches me she grabs my arm and leans into my ear. No congratulations or compliments are offered. Only this: “You’re to come see me first thing Monday morning before homeroom.” Her tone is stern and insistent. I know she means business. And then she walks away. Of the three guidance counselors at the high school, Mrs. Oreski was the one to get. She had a special feel for the teenage mind – the insecurity, the false bravado, the wanting to simultaneously stand out and disappear. One sensed her allegiance to be wholly with the students and not the administration. Everything she said seemed to be delivered with a wink, a reassuring squeeze of the arm, or pat on the back. Her whole persona seemed to whisper “It’s going to be okay.” Which, really, might be all anyone would ever need to say to a teenager. So there I am in her office the following Monday before homeroom, as instructed. No small talk, no questions. Simply an order: “You are never to stop acting. Even if you become a lawyer and do community theater, you must keep acting.” And then she looks at me with a steeliness I’m unaccustomed to and says: “Promise me.” I promise. How had she known? I had told no one. But it was true: I didn’t want to stop acting, ever. Surely I would have to though. Adulthood as I understood it was pretty much the opposite of an extracurricular activity. It was jobs and suits and bills and mortgages laced with an air of frustration and regret. No sane person – from a good family in Bexley, Ohio, no less – made their living as a stage actor. I hadn’t given much thought to a career at that point, but I guess I kind of half-assumed I’d be a lawyer like my father, not owing to any great interest in or love of the law but stemming more from a kind of professional inertia. This is what a kid from my background, in possession of my particular skill set grows up to be. Maybe Mrs. Oreski assumed that too, and truly felt the community theater scene would be much diminished absent my contributions. But I’ve also wondered if she was trying to say something without quite saying it, speaking in a kind of suburban guidance counselor code. Yes, I wanted to sing and act, but that urge was competing with a desire no less strong to simply fit in. Wanting to be an actor was an ambition so culturally at odds with what my peers were up to, with what I thought my community and family expected of me. All I knew – and this was something I simply couldn’t deny – was that I’d never felt so alive as when I stepped out onto that stage. I called it magic, this sense Mrs. Oreski had. But I now understand that she had simply seen me. She had seen something ignite in me, that I’d stepped into a different, upgraded, more fully expressed version of myself, and she was simply doing her job: reflecting back to me what she had seen. When we’re too young to trust ourselves we may need to borrow other people’s faith in us until we develop some of our own. We need another set of eyes to see ourselves clearly, because our own vision is fractured or busted or not yet fully formed. Mrs. Oreski was the set of eyes I needed in that moment. She called it out and named it. Before I could even admit it fully to myself – or even knew what this thing was – she gave voice to it. By late winter of my senior year – less than a year after my Monday morning visit to her office – Mrs. Oreski died by taking her own life. Sitting at her memorial, sandwiched between my parents, I felt safe enough to cry. Loss had left my life largely untouched until that moment; Mrs. Oreski’s death upended some unspoken belief I had about “the way things should go” and taught me some quick and necessary lessons: That madness, depression, and absurdity are facts and features of life. That not everything will get fixed in the end. And that tragedy will not always be confined to newspapers or the local news telecasts or the unlucky family down the block. I recently found a picture of her online from her early teaching days in 1971. The accompanying article was about changing dress codes at the school. They’re all wearing slacks in the photo; the fight to wear them was – according to the article – hard-won. She looks terrific, posed in front of a blackboard with four students from a high school in southwestern Pennsylvania, all awkwardly holding books, papers, and binders. I kept staring at Mrs. Oreski in the picture: Her half-grin, the wide lapels on her entirely awesome period-appropriate outfit, her hair pulled back revealing a face unlined with worry, no awareness of the trials ahead or that her life would be cut short by her own hand. But also no idea of the many fragile teenagers she would go on to help and inspire. An additional sting to the loss: all the many teenagers over the years who never got to receive that help and inspiration. But it’s not her death which dominates my memory. It’s the image of us that morning in her office – 28 years ago – when she told an insecure sixteen-year-old that he could be excellent at something. She gave me permission to do an impossible thing. She believed in me before I believed in myself. I’ve often wondered if she knew, somehow, that she’d be going away. And that before she did, she made sure to whisper sacred and necessary words into my oversized teenaged ears: “You are never to stop acting.” GUNATILLAKE: I love the part of Josh’s story where Mrs Oreski gives him the advice which goes on and inspires the direction of his life. And even more, I love the way he describes it: Mrs. Oreski acting as another set of eyes, knowing what Josh needs in that moment – even if he doesn’t – and naming it. In certain meditation traditions, there’s a special name for this: pointing-out instructions, advice and teachings which nudge you to see the thing that’s right there in front of your face but for various reasons you’re not seeing. So to honor Mrs. Oreski – and of course, Josh – I thought we’d have a little pointing out instructions ourselves. However your body is, wherever it is, become aware of the sensations of where your body touches the earth. If you’re standing or walking, become aware of your feet. If sitting, you can also include your seat. If you’re lying down just let your awareness rest in the most obvious sensations of your body contacting the surface beneath you. This is mindfulness. This is knowing what is happening while it is happening. Invite your awareness to just rest with these sensations of contact. Relaxed. Open. Permissive. As if being aware of these sensations, knowing them, soaking into them, is the most important thing you could be doing right now. There may not seem to be much to it. But this mindfulness, this being present and alive to what is happening right now, is the atom from which the whole universe of meditation, of contemplative practice is built. Letting the breath be steady. Letting the body be steady. Letting more and more of your sensations of contacting the earth fill up your awareness. Simple mindfulness. Total mindfulness. Stay here. Stay here, aware of the touch of the Earth. What knows? What is aware? These questions are a way to move the object of your awareness to the background and instead, notice the awareness itself. What is it like? What is it? What knows? Because at its heart, the invitation of meditation is to never stop exploring. You are never to stop exploring. Maybe Josh’s fond story of Mrs. Oreski reminded you of someone in your life, a wise friend, who pointed to something in you which you had been ignoring or putting to one side. If so, bring that person, that moment to mind, and reflect on how grateful you are for what they said to you. And make the intention – if you like – to do the same to someone else in your life. To be Mrs. Oreski to a different Josh. Is there someone you know who can’t quite see how brilliant they are? If so, set the intention, when you next see them, to tell them. That’s all. Who knows – it might just be the thing to send their life into a new direction, just as it did for Josh.
INSPIRATION
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Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Actor, filmmaker, and musician Josh Radnor takes us back to his very first time on stage — and introduces us to someone who gave him the push he needed to be true to himself. Please note that this episode includes language about self harm.
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Actor, filmmaker, and musician Josh Radnor takes us back to his very first time on stage — and introduces us to someone who gave him the push he needed to be true to himself. Please note that this episode includes language about self harm.
INSPIRATION
Finding permission to pursue my own dreams
JOSH RADNOR
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Episode Transcript
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
About Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
Episode Transcript
In precisely chosen words, the writer, artist and Zen priest Zenju Earthlyn Manuel tells a story from her girlhood, a road trip from LA to Louisiana in 1957. As her family carefully winds their way through the segregated South, five-year-old Zenju sits in the back seat dreaming of cowboys and the Wild West – while her parents navigate an altogether different landscape. From them, from the trip, Zenju now believes she’s learned how to find her way in the world, in her skin.
WISDOM
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ZENJU'S MEDITATIVE STORY
ZeNJU'S MEDITATIVE STORY
ACCEPTANCE
Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
Navigating life in my own skin
Listen
In precisely chosen words, the writer, artist and Zen priest Zenju Earthlyn Manuel tells a story from her girlhood, a road trip from LA to Louisiana in 1957. As her family carefully winds their way through the segregated South, five-year-old Zenju sits in the back seat dreaming of cowboys and the Wild West – while her parents navigate an altogether different landscape. From them, from the trip, Zenju now believes she’s learned how to find her way in the world, in her skin.
Zenju Earthlyn Manuel is an author, poet, ordained Zen Buddhist priest, teacher, artist, and drum medicine woman. Her most recent book is "Sanctuary: A Meditation on Home, Homelessness, and Belonging."
"Bring to mind someone whose qualities have touched you and inspired you to follow in their heart’s footsteps. Smile. Feel the warmth of their image in your mind. Enjoying the silence together. And as you do, I'll bring you to mind, appreciating you for taking this time to be with us."
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From the closing meditation
ZENJU EARTHLYN MANUEL: Our morning is filled with more landmarks to reach Opelousas, Louisiana: Go past the house without the roof, turn left at the post office and go past the meadow with the cows. When you see the fork in the road go straight or else you’ll end up on the wrong side of the train tracks. When we arrive within a day, I look up into the dark wide face of Auntie Ola, the place marker that said we were from Louisiana even though we were born in California. She’s the marker that confirms the shaping of our image into the land on which my father and mother were born. She’s the one who holds the same memories as Daddy. I can’t take my eyes off this coal black woman with soft black hair, who is Louisiana herself – and I belong to her. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Zenju Earthlyn Manuel is an author, poet, ordained Zen Buddhist priest, teacher, and artist. And the Zen tradition she’s in the lineage of is one I hold very dear. One which emphasises simplicity, clarity, wisdom and beginner’s mind – the mind of many possibilities not yet constricted by certainty. And the story she shares today is full of light, light which points us back to ourselves. 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, I’ll come in ever so briefly with guidance as you listen to the story. Some prompts may help. Others may not. That’s okay. And now onto the story. In Zenju’s tradition, one of the core practices is called “just sitting.” Letting the body be how it is. Alert, aware, nothing to do but sit. So whatever position your body is in right now, can it be just like it is? The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. EARTHLYN MANUEL: We take only one family trip to the strange lands of Louisiana and Texas. I’m five years old. It’s 1957. The palm trees of Los Angeles are left behind. I had been living in my swing to avoid getting in trouble. Pushing in and out until what hurt began to die. In this period, metal wings of police helicopters don’t drown out the flutter of hummingbirds. There’s no disrupting those rare moments where we can breathe and meditate like monks and nuns, right where we stand. I jump into the backseat of our black fat Buick, along with my sisters, ages 8 and 3. Mom fusses about making sure the luggage is secure in the trunk, not that they’re overloaded. She worries because if we lose the few shoes and clothes we own, it means we lose everything. The plan is to travel to Louisiana by landmarks because having been born in 1898 Daddy can’t read, and Mom doesn’t drive or understand the direction of the highways. To her, going one way or the other looks the same. I settle back in my seat despite our situation. We’re going back home. The place that shaped my parents. My sisters and I aren’t from this place. But perhaps "we" are going back home too? Because we’re a work-in-progress being shaped liked them, eating Gumbo only in the winter when the crabs surface, and being fiercely superstitious in an effort to ensure that we don’t cause our own unfortunate illness or death. Since we’re all shaped alike, we’re all going back home- back from having gone forward away from being so country in our ways. Back to Louisiana. Back home was where Daddy, the last sibling of 20 children, would visit with his youngest sister Ola. To return to Auntie Ola is to go back to a marker in my father’s book of life. It’s a place in his story he has remembered for fifty plus years. To release the red soda water my sisters and I had consumed, my father pulls off the road for us to squat and pee. The air glides its hand along our naked behinds. No shame, just a lesson in necessity. Like it’s a necessity to heed the signs on the road that aren’t there: Bring Your Own Fried Chicken. Don’t Stop Along the Way from California to Texas or You Might Be Killed by the KKK. Keep Going Straight Ahead. Pee Over There. Stretch Your Legs Down The Way. These are the invisible signs behind the real signs that my father can’t read. "Are we there yet?" Mom laughs in the way that makes me feel like I’ve asked something foolish. She does that often. I don’t understand the reason why what I said is particularly funny. I’m embarrassed. What I mean is: When are we going to stop and see those cowboys like on the Saturday afternoon movies I watch with my father, after he cooks the rice and sautées the canned salmon with onions. What I mean is that the mountains are so big they seem like they might crumble from their height and crush us. What I mean is I have a headache. What I mean is I don’t trust that they know the directions. The road seems to be going nowhere. A black child without a destination is a child with no future. I need a future that will show that the pain of being black will disappear someday, and this trip is proving painful. So the future should be close enough to see, smell, and feel no pain. I had told my entire class at school that I was going on a vacation. I had never been able to say such a thing. I wasn’t going to where they were going that summer: Paris, Hawaii, or Yosemite – which I thought for a long time was in another country. We aren’t flying, taking a bus or a train that can take us exactly to where we need to go. No, we‘re going to Louisiana by way of landmarks through Texas, in a fat black Buick that smells of gasoline once it’s filled to the brim. At the border between California and Nevada the guard begins to ask my father questions that I’m afraid he can’t answer. Lawrence Manuel, Jr. is silent, a silence of courtesy, of an imposed respect as a black man, or a protection from being found driving while illiterate, protection from being maimed or killed. I want to say to the man in the uniform with a pistol at his side, “My Daddy’s a quiet man.” And because Daddy and Mom are shaped by silence, we are shaped by it. We’re a quiet family traveling without listening to the radio or talking hardly at all to each other. It’s an entirely silent trip, moving about from one state to another, looking for invisible cattle gates that are meant to keep us from crossing borders of kinds. We dare to take a vacation without knowing where we’re going. Home is that way? Or is it this way? GUNATILLAKE: Have you ever gone on a trip without knowing the way? Does the idea of getting lost make you excited or afraid? ZENJU: Route 66 leads into the desert where there’s nothing but hot. With no buildings for Daddy to follow like he does in the city, no street lights lighting up those landmarks. We go as we’re told, like the old folks had told him to come across the river and then come around the mountains. Follow the bend to the left then come up over the hill, and stop at the hut that has a sunken roof. That's Uncle’s house. Stay there for the night. No need for a map. I feel we’re in great danger of falling off the face of the earth. Going to sleep will be the best thing. And that’s just what I do, listening to the cars speeding along, I gaze out the window at green meadows, brown hills, blue sky until I become hypnotized by the groaning of the engine and the scent of rubber tires, with many daydreams about the Texas cowboys I expect to see soon. Mom fusses about not being able to see the road as if she’s driving for Daddy. In the night I wake to Mom shouting, "Stop, Daddy." Yes, she calls him Daddy too. She’s much younger than him. "Stop!" She yells louder. When I sit up to look, I can see nothing but the headlights beaming into the black sky that surrounds us. In front, half of a white fence and nothing on the other side but stars. There could have been a sign that said "CLIFF" – but like I said my father can’t read and neither can I. “It’s a dead end,” my older sister yells. We’re inches from going over the edge of a mountain. I can’t breathe. We had missed a turn at the river or at a mountain, or the road with the falling house where Uncle once lived twenty years ago. Whatever the instructions, landmarks invisible in the bewitching hours of the night don’t warn us that we’re falling off the face of the earth. I force myself back to sleep. I pray into the car seat for a miracle. In the early evening after crossing the hot desert without air conditioning, we stop for gas at Mobil. Daddy recognizes the red winged Pegasus – or the flying red horse, as it appears to me. He says one word to the gas station owner. "Ethyl," instead of “Gas, please.” Ethyl, for ethanol, is one precise word and he must have wanted the attendant to know that he knew a fancy word for gas. He says it with dignity, a human dignity denied him in America. I hang my head out the car and breathe in the smell of gas. I’m intoxicated. I feel free because we’re going somewhere as opposed to being stuck on a block, in a city, in a state, or in a country that doesn’t want us. Dizzy from the fumes of gasoline, I fall back into the seat, enjoying the feeling of floating. We can’t sleep on the side of the road for risk of being arrested. And we can’t get a motel room because of being black. Daddy has to make it to our destination in two days and one night without sleep and without another driver. I wonder what vacation amenities my classmates might be enjoying. GUNATILLAKE: Does Zenju’s story of injustice remind you of a time when you’ve faced injustice or disadvantage in your own life? If it feels safe, bring that time to mind, and breathe. ZENJU: "Are we in Texas?" Please let us be in Texas. A few hundred miles later Mom announces that we’ve arrived. It’s near 100 degrees of humidity. The earth has turned away from the sun and the orange tint lands on a landscape of dirt, rocks and tufts of dried grass. There’s a saloon standing alone. No horses hitched to a pole, and no white cowboys parading about dressed with holsters like on TV. Daddy gets out of the car as if he has just driven across town to a place he knows. Or maybe he’s bracing himself for the relatives he hasn’t seen since he was a young man. Has their hair turned gray and white like the hair on his head that he colors with black dye? Will they recognize him? He stands for a long time near the car waiting and looking. He adjusts his Stetson, dusts his Florsheims, and straightens his slacks. He never wears his work shoes out in public. He’s always dressed. Always a display of pride. I jump to the ground into a pile of dirt. I hadn’t done the packing so I was without my cowboy boots, hat, and holster with its cap gun. As we walk closer to the saloon, loud laughter, and the smell of liquor, sails towards us. We walk towards the saloon with Daddy in the lead. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s meet your cousins.” We enter. The noise hits me first. Grown men and women cackling in a dark red lit room, bent over a bar with drinks clinking with ice cubes. Then a yell, “Cousin Tela! He made it!” Someone yells. I imagine sometimes folks don’t make it, because my father is not the only black Creole person that can’t read English. I stand still while the cousins grab and hug my parents. My father is 64 years old and my mother is 47 at the time. No cowboys. No horses. And our cousins are old enough to be our parents. I’m stunned. I’m disappointed. Us girls are pushed through from one cousin to the next, receiving booze scented-kisses. My sisters and I are laid to rest in the back of the bar. We can hear Daddy's people mumbling in Creole. Cigar smoke trails in to fill the holes in the walls that are so close to my nose I can feel the heat of the night coming through them. Our morning is filled with more landmarks to reach Opelousas, Louisiana: Go past the house without the roof. Turn left at the post office and go past the meadow with the cows. When you see the fork in the road go straight or else you’ll end up on the wrong side of the train tracks. When we arrive within a day, I look up into the dark wide face of Auntie Ola, the place marker that said we were from Louisiana, even though we were born in California. She’s the marker that confirms the shaping of our image into the land on which my father and mother were born. She’s the one who holds the same memories as Daddy. Even with a full glass of the sweetest cow milk ever, I can’t take my eyes off this coal black woman with soft black hair, who is Louisiana herself – and I belong to her. I fall in love with this aunt whose very life holds us in the red dirt, etches our names in the wood of her house when she speaks them, marks our place like in a chapter of a book, where the story with my father in it had stopped when he left. "Go play," she says. She has few words like my father. Why are black people so loud about some things and quiet about others? They don’t say the important things around us children. It makes me uncomfortable because black people are always in danger. Maybe they’re quiet so they can hear someone running up behind them. Two younger boy cousins, who Auntie Ola didn’t give birth to, take my sisters and I for a walk down the road that lasts us five minutes. We run from the cows that our cousins parade around and introduce to us as if they were pet dogs. Mom, Ola, Daddy, and Auntie Ola’s old man, laugh so hard when they see us panting at the door. Maybe we’re not shaped exactly like them after all. Ola Manuel’s house sits up on stilts on an acre of land. Her dog runs under the house when we charge from the cow that never makes a move. She smiles like Daddy. And it isn’t long before I realize her smile is my own. That night I see my parents together in their underwear for the first time in my life. I close my eyes. They are human. They are a man and a woman. And Texas and Louisiana are as naked as them. I can’t let it go. There are no cowboys, no holsters, and no boots like my own, only cows with big heads and big eyes. Auntie Ola died eight years later. The place she marked for us in Opelousas became the end of a book. The story of the Manuels living in Louisiana was over. Like on the back of a book an author's picture appears, there was one of Ola in her casket stuffed in my father's drawer. I nearly fainted when he showed it to us on his return from yet another car trip to Louisiana to her funeral. It was 1965. I’d sneak sometimes to look at my dead aunt in her casket. I shivered each time at the image that would remain my last memory of our first and last summer vacation. Oh, and I never told my classmates the truth about not seeing cowboys. What I did see was courage, trust, and joy all wrapped up inside my parents. These were the qualities I would have to hone in my life to live fully in my dark skin. I bow to them. GUNATILLAKE: There were so many elements to Zenju’s story: The universal experience of being on a family road trip; the tragic experience of what it is to be discriminated against in the country of your birth; being a child in an adult’s world. And for our meditation together I’d like to bring out three themes which most enveloped me when listening. And the first is heat. What is the temperature of the space around you like right now? Is the temperature causing you discomfort? Or is it pleasurable? Something in the middle? Or are you not sure? The sensation of temperature on our skin. The junction between what we call the outside world and what we call ourselves. Feel the temperature. Breathe with the temperature. Are there any parts of your body which feel particularly hot? Your head, your chest, your shoulders, your belly even. Let them be hot. And if uncomfortable, see if instead of that heat being something you have to push away, see if you can perceive that heat as energy and power. Soothing even. Warming the body. Relaxing the body. Radiating. The second theme that struck me during Zenju’s story was silence. The silence of her parents. The silence of the drive. And now that she is a Zen Priest, the silence that is her ground of being. Here’s ten seconds of silence. What did your mind do during that time? How did it deal with the void, the fullness of silence? Now here’s 20 seconds of silence. Isn’t it interesting how we struggle with silence. The mind full of momentum, always with some comment or convincing storyline. So for this next period of silence, see if you can relax into it and just listen. Letting the silence pervade you, energize you. And if it makes sense, listen to its sound. The third theme that Zenju’s story brought up for me is appreciation. Her appreciation of her parents’ courage, their trust, their joy. Her appreciation for the experiences that made her, and continue to make her. So let’s close this meditation together with appreciation. Bringing to mind someone whose qualities have touched you and inspired you to follow in their heart’s footsteps. Smiling. Feeling the warmth of their image in your mind. Enjoying the silence together. And as you do, I’ll bring you to mind, appreciating you for taking this time to be with us. Thank you.
From the closing meditation
Zenju Earthlyn Manuel is an author, poet, ordained Zen Buddhist priest, teacher, artist, and drum medicine woman. Her most recent book is "Sanctuary: A Meditation on Home, Homelessness, and Belonging."
"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?"
Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
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ZENJU EARTHLYN MANUEL: Our morning is filled with more landmarks to reach Opelousas, Louisiana: Go past the house without the roof, turn left at the post office and go past the meadow with the cows. When you see the fork in the road go straight or else you’ll end up on the wrong side of the train tracks. When we arrive within a day, I look up into the dark wide face of Auntie Ola, the place marker that said we were from Louisiana even though we were born in California. She’s the marker that confirms the shaping of our image into the land on which my father and mother were born. She’s the one who holds the same memories as Daddy. I can’t take my eyes off this coal black woman with soft black hair, who is Louisiana herself – and I belong to her. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Zenju Earthlyn Manuel is an author, poet, ordained Zen Buddhist priest, teacher, and artist. And the Zen tradition she’s in the lineage of is one I hold very dear. One which emphasises simplicity, clarity, wisdom and beginner’s mind – the mind of many possibilities not yet constricted by certainty. And the story she shares today is full of light, light which points us back to ourselves. 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, I’ll come in ever so briefly with guidance as you listen to the story. Some prompts may help. Others may not. That’s okay. And now onto the story. In Zenju’s tradition, one of the core practices is called “just sitting.” Letting the body be how it is. Alert, aware, nothing to do but sit. So whatever position your body is in right now, can it be just like it is? The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. EARTHLYN MANUEL: We take only one family trip to the strange lands of Louisiana and Texas. I’m five years old. It’s 1957. The palm trees of Los Angeles are left behind. I had been living in my swing to avoid getting in trouble. Pushing in and out until what hurt began to die. In this period, metal wings of police helicopters don’t drown out the flutter of hummingbirds. There’s no disrupting those rare moments where we can breathe and meditate like monks and nuns, right where we stand. I jump into the backseat of our black fat Buick, along with my sisters, ages 8 and 3. Mom fusses about making sure the luggage is secure in the trunk, not that they’re overloaded. She worries because if we lose the few shoes and clothes we own, it means we lose everything. The plan is to travel to Louisiana by landmarks because having been born in 1898 Daddy can’t read, and Mom doesn’t drive or understand the direction of the highways. To her, going one way or the other looks the same. I settle back in my seat despite our situation. We’re going back home. The place that shaped my parents. My sisters and I aren’t from this place. But perhaps "we" are going back home too? Because we’re a work-in-progress being shaped liked them, eating Gumbo only in the winter when the crabs surface, and being fiercely superstitious in an effort to ensure that we don’t cause our own unfortunate illness or death. Since we’re all shaped alike, we’re all going back home- back from having gone forward away from being so country in our ways. Back to Louisiana. Back home was where Daddy, the last sibling of 20 children, would visit with his youngest sister Ola. To return to Auntie Ola is to go back to a marker in my father’s book of life. It’s a place in his story he has remembered for fifty plus years. To release the red soda water my sisters and I had consumed, my father pulls off the road for us to squat and pee. The air glides its hand along our naked behinds. No shame, just a lesson in necessity. Like it’s a necessity to heed the signs on the road that aren’t there: Bring Your Own Fried Chicken. Don’t Stop Along the Way from California to Texas or You Might Be Killed by the KKK. Keep Going Straight Ahead. Pee Over There. Stretch Your Legs Down The Way. These are the invisible signs behind the real signs that my father can’t read. "Are we there yet?" Mom laughs in the way that makes me feel like I’ve asked something foolish. She does that often. I don’t understand the reason why what I said is particularly funny. I’m embarrassed. What I mean is: When are we going to stop and see those cowboys like on the Saturday afternoon movies I watch with my father, after he cooks the rice and sautées the canned salmon with onions. What I mean is that the mountains are so big they seem like they might crumble from their height and crush us. What I mean is I have a headache. What I mean is I don’t trust that they know the directions. The road seems to be going nowhere. A black child without a destination is a child with no future. I need a future that will show that the pain of being black will disappear someday, and this trip is proving painful. So the future should be close enough to see, smell, and feel no pain. I had told my entire class at school that I was going on a vacation. I had never been able to say such a thing. I wasn’t going to where they were going that summer: Paris, Hawaii, or Yosemite – which I thought for a long time was in another country. We aren’t flying, taking a bus or a train that can take us exactly to where we need to go. No, we‘re going to Louisiana by way of landmarks through Texas, in a fat black Buick that smells of gasoline once it’s filled to the brim. At the border between California and Nevada the guard begins to ask my father questions that I’m afraid he can’t answer. Lawrence Manuel, Jr. is silent, a silence of courtesy, of an imposed respect as a black man, or a protection from being found driving while illiterate, protection from being maimed or killed. I want to say to the man in the uniform with a pistol at his side, “My Daddy’s a quiet man.” And because Daddy and Mom are shaped by silence, we are shaped by it. We’re a quiet family traveling without listening to the radio or talking hardly at all to each other. It’s an entirely silent trip, moving about from one state to another, looking for invisible cattle gates that are meant to keep us from crossing borders of kinds. We dare to take a vacation without knowing where we’re going. Home is that way? Or is it this way? GUNATILLAKE: Have you ever gone on a trip without knowing the way? Does the idea of getting lost make you excited or afraid? ZENJU: Route 66 leads into the desert where there’s nothing but hot. With no buildings for Daddy to follow like he does in the city, no street lights lighting up those landmarks. We go as we’re told, like the old folks had told him to come across the river and then come around the mountains. Follow the bend to the left then come up over the hill, and stop at the hut that has a sunken roof. That's Uncle’s house. Stay there for the night. No need for a map. I feel we’re in great danger of falling off the face of the earth. Going to sleep will be the best thing. And that’s just what I do, listening to the cars speeding along, I gaze out the window at green meadows, brown hills, blue sky until I become hypnotized by the groaning of the engine and the scent of rubber tires, with many daydreams about the Texas cowboys I expect to see soon. Mom fusses about not being able to see the road as if she’s driving for Daddy. In the night I wake to Mom shouting, "Stop, Daddy." Yes, she calls him Daddy too. She’s much younger than him. "Stop!" She yells louder. When I sit up to look, I can see nothing but the headlights beaming into the black sky that surrounds us. In front, half of a white fence and nothing on the other side but stars. There could have been a sign that said "CLIFF" – but like I said my father can’t read and neither can I. “It’s a dead end,” my older sister yells. We’re inches from going over the edge of a mountain. I can’t breathe. We had missed a turn at the river or at a mountain, or the road with the falling house where Uncle once lived twenty years ago. Whatever the instructions, landmarks invisible in the bewitching hours of the night don’t warn us that we’re falling off the face of the earth. I force myself back to sleep. I pray into the car seat for a miracle. In the early evening after crossing the hot desert without air conditioning, we stop for gas at Mobil. Daddy recognizes the red winged Pegasus – or the flying red horse, as it appears to me. He says one word to the gas station owner. "Ethyl," instead of “Gas, please.” Ethyl, for ethanol, is one precise word and he must have wanted the attendant to know that he knew a fancy word for gas. He says it with dignity, a human dignity denied him in America. I hang my head out the car and breathe in the smell of gas. I’m intoxicated. I feel free because we’re going somewhere as opposed to being stuck on a block, in a city, in a state, or in a country that doesn’t want us. Dizzy from the fumes of gasoline, I fall back into the seat, enjoying the feeling of floating. We can’t sleep on the side of the road for risk of being arrested. And we can’t get a motel room because of being black. Daddy has to make it to our destination in two days and one night without sleep and without another driver. I wonder what vacation amenities my classmates might be enjoying. GUNATILLAKE: Does Zenju’s story of injustice remind you of a time when you’ve faced injustice or disadvantage in your own life? If it feels safe, bring that time to mind, and breathe. ZENJU: "Are we in Texas?" Please let us be in Texas. A few hundred miles later Mom announces that we’ve arrived. It’s near 100 degrees of humidity. The earth has turned away from the sun and the orange tint lands on a landscape of dirt, rocks and tufts of dried grass. There’s a saloon standing alone. No horses hitched to a pole, and no white cowboys parading about dressed with holsters like on TV. Daddy gets out of the car as if he has just driven across town to a place he knows. Or maybe he’s bracing himself for the relatives he hasn’t seen since he was a young man. Has their hair turned gray and white like the hair on his head that he colors with black dye? Will they recognize him? He stands for a long time near the car waiting and looking. He adjusts his Stetson, dusts his Florsheims, and straightens his slacks. He never wears his work shoes out in public. He’s always dressed. Always a display of pride. I jump to the ground into a pile of dirt. I hadn’t done the packing so I was without my cowboy boots, hat, and holster with its cap gun. As we walk closer to the saloon, loud laughter, and the smell of liquor, sails towards us. We walk towards the saloon with Daddy in the lead. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s meet your cousins.” We enter. The noise hits me first. Grown men and women cackling in a dark red lit room, bent over a bar with drinks clinking with ice cubes. Then a yell, “Cousin Tela! He made it!” Someone yells. I imagine sometimes folks don’t make it, because my father is not the only black Creole person that can’t read English. I stand still while the cousins grab and hug my parents. My father is 64 years old and my mother is 47 at the time. No cowboys. No horses. And our cousins are old enough to be our parents. I’m stunned. I’m disappointed. Us girls are pushed through from one cousin to the next, receiving booze scented-kisses. My sisters and I are laid to rest in the back of the bar. We can hear Daddy's people mumbling in Creole. Cigar smoke trails in to fill the holes in the walls that are so close to my nose I can feel the heat of the night coming through them. Our morning is filled with more landmarks to reach Opelousas, Louisiana: Go past the house without the roof. Turn left at the post office and go past the meadow with the cows. When you see the fork in the road go straight or else you’ll end up on the wrong side of the train tracks. When we arrive within a day, I look up into the dark wide face of Auntie Ola, the place marker that said we were from Louisiana, even though we were born in California. She’s the marker that confirms the shaping of our image into the land on which my father and mother were born. She’s the one who holds the same memories as Daddy. Even with a full glass of the sweetest cow milk ever, I can’t take my eyes off this coal black woman with soft black hair, who is Louisiana herself – and I belong to her. I fall in love with this aunt whose very life holds us in the red dirt, etches our names in the wood of her house when she speaks them, marks our place like in a chapter of a book, where the story with my father in it had stopped when he left. "Go play," she says. She has few words like my father. Why are black people so loud about some things and quiet about others? They don’t say the important things around us children. It makes me uncomfortable because black people are always in danger. Maybe they’re quiet so they can hear someone running up behind them. Two younger boy cousins, who Auntie Ola didn’t give birth to, take my sisters and I for a walk down the road that lasts us five minutes. We run from the cows that our cousins parade around and introduce to us as if they were pet dogs. Mom, Ola, Daddy, and Auntie Ola’s old man, laugh so hard when they see us panting at the door. Maybe we’re not shaped exactly like them after all. Ola Manuel’s house sits up on stilts on an acre of land. Her dog runs under the house when we charge from the cow that never makes a move. She smiles like Daddy. And it isn’t long before I realize her smile is my own. That night I see my parents together in their underwear for the first time in my life. I close my eyes. They are human. They are a man and a woman. And Texas and Louisiana are as naked as them. I can’t let it go. There are no cowboys, no holsters, and no boots like my own, only cows with big heads and big eyes. Auntie Ola died eight years later. The place she marked for us in Opelousas became the end of a book. The story of the Manuels living in Louisiana was over. Like on the back of a book an author's picture appears, there was one of Ola in her casket stuffed in my father's drawer. I nearly fainted when he showed it to us on his return from yet another car trip to Louisiana to her funeral. It was 1965. I’d sneak sometimes to look at my dead aunt in her casket. I shivered each time at the image that would remain my last memory of our first and last summer vacation. Oh, and I never told my classmates the truth about not seeing cowboys. What I did see was courage, trust, and joy all wrapped up inside my parents. These were the qualities I would have to hone in my life to live fully in my dark skin. I bow to them. GUNATILLAKE: There were so many elements to Zenju’s story: The universal experience of being on a family road trip; the tragic experience of what it is to be discriminated against in the country of your birth; being a child in an adult’s world. And for our meditation together I’d like to bring out three themes which most enveloped me when listening. And the first is heat. What is the temperature of the space around you like right now? Is the temperature causing you discomfort? Or is it pleasurable? Something in the middle? Or are you not sure? The sensation of temperature on our skin. The junction between what we call the outside world and what we call ourselves. Feel the temperature. Breathe with the temperature. Are there any parts of your body which feel particularly hot? Your head, your chest, your shoulders, your belly even. Let them be hot. And if uncomfortable, see if instead of that heat being something you have to push away, see if you can perceive that heat as energy and power. Soothing even. Warming the body. Relaxing the body. Radiating. The second theme that struck me during Zenju’s story was silence. The silence of her parents. The silence of the drive. And now that she is a Zen Priest, the silence that is her ground of being. Here’s ten seconds of silence. What did your mind do during that time? How did it deal with the void, the fullness of silence? Now here’s 20 seconds of silence. Isn’t it interesting how we struggle with silence. The mind full of momentum, always with some comment or convincing storyline. So for this next period of silence, see if you can relax into it and just listen. Letting the silence pervade you, energize you. And if it makes sense, listen to its sound. The third theme that Zenju’s story brought up for me is appreciation. Her appreciation of her parents’ courage, their trust, their joy. Her appreciation for the experiences that made her, and continue to make her. So let’s close this meditation together with appreciation. Bringing to mind someone whose qualities have touched you and inspired you to follow in their heart’s footsteps. Smiling. Feeling the warmth of their image in your mind. Enjoying the silence together. And as you do, I’ll bring you to mind, appreciating you for taking this time to be with us. Thank you.
ACCEPTANCE
Listen
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
Writer, artist and Zen priest Zenju Earthlyn Manuel tells a story from her girlhood, a road trip from LA to Louisiana in 1957. While 5-year-old Zenju sits in the back seat dreaming, her parents navigate an altogether different landscape.
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Writer, artist and Zen priest Zenju Earthlyn Manuel tells a story from her girlhood, a road trip from LA to Louisiana in 1957. While 5-year-old Zenju sits in the back seat dreaming, her parents navigate an altogether different landscape.
INSPIRATION
Navigating life in my own skin
Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
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Episode Transcript
WISDOM
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
HANNAH BRENCHER: It’s in this letter, and the letters that keep coming that Fall where I meet someone who isn't just my mother anymore. She isn’t just a caretaker or a person to call on a bad day. She isn't just an emergency contact. Somehow we’ve crossed borders and boundaries and we’re becoming friends. Real friends. This is new territory. It’s as if we knew the possibility always existed but, for the first time, we’re jiggling the doorknob and allowing ourselves to walk in this space, my mother leading me still. We give one another advice, acting as sounding boards; We send one another jokes, and letters, and packages. I watch her— and coach her from the sidelines. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Hannah Brencher is the founder of More Love Letters, an organization that helps people connect through the age-old art form of words handwritten on a page. In today’s episode, Hannah shares a story about deepening relationships when we slow down enough to express ourselves with pen and paper. 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 before we hear from Hannah, I’d like you to smile. Ultimately all of her work is about connection and joy, even in difficult circumstances. So even if you don’t feel like smiling, give it a go. And notice any change in mood that follows as a result. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. BRENCHER: It starts out as a game. A hide-and-seek of sorts. My mother scribbles love letters on paper napkins and sneakily places them in the bottom of my bright red lunch bag. Her memos to me, her daughter. Her reminders hidden in the mundane of daily life that someone, somewhere is sending light and love. These letters, always hidden somewhere for me to find, come from my family’s long and winding lineage of letter writers. My grandmother passed the tradition down to my mother. My mother passed the tradition to me, one adorned envelope at a time. And I’m planning to pass the tradition forward one day in the form of notebook paper that carries the scent of home. Even if all the postmen disappear, we will still have these letters, written on scraps of paper. It’s on a day when my family’s forest green SUV is packed up with Tupperware bins and bright blue IKEA bags that I finally understand why I need those letters from my mother, Why I want these letters to keep coming to my new home in Worcester, Massachusetts as we drive the 2 hours and 43 minutes there. A 10-by-10 dorm room with paper thin walls. I’m 18 and I wear big, bug-eye sunglasses the whole day, even though the sun never comes out. I don’t want my parents to see that I’m holding back tears. I know this. The moment almost all of us work up to, where we go off on our own and forge a new path, without anyone holding our hands. But I want five more minutes to just be small and in the protection of the people who leave the kitchen light on for me every time I come home. The summer leading up to going off to college is different than I imagined. My mother spends her best hours in a hospital room, sitting beside her mother who is slowly forgetting who she is. My mother’s summer smells of chalky blue hospital gloves as she tries to figure out how to mother her mother through the last part of the story. My father tells me the call will come soon. The one where I have to come home and bury my grandmother. Two weeks into that first semester, I pack a small bag full of black clothing and wait for my brother to pull up to my dorm. I get into his blue truck. We barely speak the same 2 hour and 43 minute drive back home to attend my grandmother’s funeral. When the casket is lowered into the ground, and the bagpipes play “Danny Boy” one last time, and the leftover finger foods are stored in ziplock baggies and placed in the fridge, my father drops me back off at my dorm room. I allow the chaos of new courses and new activities to sweep me up and make me forget the loss back home. Meanwhile my mother and her sisters go through piles of notebooks and letters from my grandmother. Her soft but abrupt handwriting was everywhere. She kept notebooks and journals and logs of books she’d read up until her memory began to fade. One afternoon in that first semester, I make a trip to the campus post office to check for mail. I love this trip. The long walk through the hills of the campus and now, since it’s October, I can watch the leaves change from a youthful green to a crimson red. Slowly but steadily, the Autumn is coming in and bidding the leaves to break off from the only thing they’ve ever known. This is the one time death has ever looked this beautiful and necessary to me. I enter the small post office. I turn the corner to find my box. It’s at eye-level. I fidget with the lock: Right. Left. Full circle right. Full stop. 34. 8. 24. I jingle the lock and watch the small box open up. It’s a letter from home. My mother’s familiar handwriting, thin and spreading out on the page like it’s in no hurry to be tidy or proper, cascades across the envelope. The envelope is a bright turquoise color. I know this is not the original envelope. I’m a rule follower. I buy the card with the envelope assigned to it. Not my mother. She picks the brightest envelopes she can find. Deep purples. Sunflower yellow. A regal blue. Anything but plain white. GUNATILLAKE: What colours can you see around you? Do they feel bright and sharp? Or dull and flat? And even if you have your eyes closed, what’s here to be seen? BRENCHER: I don’t carry the letter back to my dorm room. I open the envelope immediately. I stand in the small post office, surrounded by students coming in and out of the space wearing backpacks and throwing the pizza coupons they’ve received in the trash, as I unfold the piece of notebook paper that came from a spiral bound notebook. It’s funny how letters can transport you. They can lift you out from the space you’re in and put you right beside that person who’s writing to you, from their corner of the world. In the letter, my mother attempts to spell out her grief in short sentences and unkempt cursive. I can feel the pain on the page, echoing off of her swooping “y”s and lanky capital letters. This is the first time she’s dancing with real grief. In the letter she tells me how she’s crying these days. She tries to hide the tears from others. She wants to be strong but nothing is the same after you lose your mother. She’s surprised to find the world is still moving forward. People are still calling. People are going to work. The world just keeps spinning but she’s trapped. She can’t go on pushing her cart through the grocery store, surveying the different types of shampoo for a worthy sale, when her entire insides quake with her mother’s absence. “I am spitting these days and I am finding it helps,” my mother writes to me. “I am spitting on the bathroom floor and it feels so freeing.” I don’t know who this woman is. She’s not the strong woman I’ve always seen. I picture her standing in the middle of the pink bathroom and hocking loogies onto the pink tiled floor. There she finds release for the pain. She finds an outlet for her grief. It’s in this letter – and the letters that keep coming that Fall – where I meet someone who isn't just my mother anymore. She isn’t just a caretaker or a person to call on a bad day. She isn't just an emergency contact. Somehow we’ve crossed borders and boundaries and we’re becoming friends. Real friends. This is new territory. It’s as if we knew the possibility always existed but, for the first time, we’re jiggling the doorknob and allowing ourselves to walk in this space, my mother leading me still. We give one another advice, acting as sounding boards. We send one another jokes, and letters, and packages. I watch her – and coach her from the sidelines. She picks up her mother’s memories and moves forward with only the ones she wants to keep – not the chalky blue hospital gloves or the sound of machines beeping. Not the long days in that stale hospital bed. She keeps the moments when her mother was vibrant and healthy, just as she would want to be remembered. Even though everything in my life at this point is texts and emails, I write to my mother. I pull out the paper. I embrace the sloppy handwriting that takes up two lines. I share stories with her, and I buy stamps, and I watch my words be tossed into a mail bin. The man in blue will get these notes to my mother who is 2 hours and 43 minutes away but, because of those letters, she feels close. This is a sacred part of adulthood I never asked for. I never knew I needed it. But one day, I hope my daughter and I cross over the same threshold. I hope she jiggles the doorknob and enters into the same space where my mother led me. When I’m 26, I’m doing my best to brave a severe depression that feels like a winter that’s lasting too long. I put on my coat and boots, take the car keys, and drive down to the drugstore, one of the only places still open on Christmas Eve. In the cards and notebook aisle, I pick up a two-pack of black composition books, faux leather and edgy in appearance. I buy a pack of silver Sharpies. I carry the supplies home in a flimsy plastic bag, take them up to my room, and shimmy the notebooks out of the plastic wrap encasing them. There, I begin to write letters to my one-day daughter. My daughter doesn't exist yet but, just because you've never met someone doesn’t mean you can’t see them in your mind, as real as ever. I see her springy ringlets, bright auburn hair, fiery locks that come from both sides of our families. Lanky in frame with pale freckles down her arms, she laughs like her daddy and she excavates her life for goodness and delight, like her mama. I haven’t held her yet and our hearts have scarcely met, but I’ve been writing her letters for years. I call my writings to her “fight songs” because they don’t look like the words in my own diary. They are braver. Pulsing off the page, full of potential, reminding her that one day, more than likely, she’ll find herself at a crossroads in the story. She’ll have to decide how she plans to fight for her life. Will she be gutsy and brave or will she cloak herself in words of doubt and frailty? I beg her to pick up the anthems and run towards the light. From this point forward, I fight through the depression with new purpose. I am no longer clawing my way out of the deep, dark woods for myself. I am stitching a better ending, a more reliable roadmap, for a one-day daughter who finds herself stuck in the deep, dark woods years down the line. GUNATILLAKE: What does this exercise of Hannah’s bring up for you? Interest? Judgement? If you were to do the same and imagine someone in your future lineage, who would it be and what would you tell them? BRENCHER: My iPhone pings. Another reminder pops up. As much as I try to find a quiet moment, there is always something demanded of me. All these technological rhythms are embedded in my day and yet what do they prove? They're not tangible. I can’t hold the texts I send close to my chest and trace them for a scent. The digital footprint – as mammoth as it may be – isn’t proof that you and I were here. That we lived. That we loved. That we danced in the kitchen to no music at all, or that we held someone’s hand or made them a cup of herbal tea when their world came crashing down around them. But I still have the proof. In scraps of notebook paper. In folded cards from my mother. In cards from my husband, sneakily tucked inside of a book I’m devouring while my head is turned. These things – the feeling of them against my fingertips or the sight of them stacked in a cigar box – are the proof to me that I was here. That she was here. That he was here. That we all showed up and tried to live with all the guts we could. That we rejoiced. That we cried the salty tears and spat on the bathroom floors. That we never forgot the way it felt to go to the mailbox and find a personal piece of someone waiting for you. It’s the letters, tattered, and worn, and losing their ink in some places, that I’ll keep holding onto. I’ll hold them tight and keep them safe. Hold them tighter when grief stands in the doorway and asks to go another round. Even tighter when the night is thick and the darkness feels endless and I need a hand to hold onto. I’ll keep holding them tight – tighter and tighter – and extra tight when the day comes, the day when I can no longer hold you. GUNATILLAKE: Listening to Hannah, what really struck me was just how many similarities there are between the act, the art of letter writing and that of meditation. Both start with intention, with heart. Then that intention, through thought, turns into action, into movement, the movement of the hand, marks on a page. Those marks are now an object – a representation of our inner experience, our inner life – now outside. That journey, taking our inner experience which we feel so personally and making it an object, something we can observe outside of ourselves and reflect upon is the journey of meditation. And it’s a journey, a movement which can be so freeing. And better still, shared with others. So, wherever you are, however you are, take a moment. Breathe. Smile. Let go of any tension you might have in your body. Do whatever you need to be soft and open. And if you were to write someone a letter based on how you’re feeling having heard Hannah’s story, inspired by it even, moved by it, who would that be? Bring them to mind. Let the thought of them bring joy if it’s here, and if there’s warmth in the mind, let there be warmth. Feel it. So. Writing the letter of this moment, a letter in response to Hannah’s story, what would you want to share. What feelings, what moods, what emotions can you name? What can you name, commit to paper, turn into something for another to discover? And if you were to write the letter of this moment, the story of this moment, how would your body express your feelings? Or in other words, what would your handwriting be like? Would it be angular, full of tension? Would it be soft and round, open and playful. Would there be capital letters? What does sadness look like on the page? The letter written, now imagine your special person receiving it, moved to be hearing from you – and in such a personal way. Sensing that image, sensing into it. And make the intention that when you recall listening to this episode, and you have the time, of writing your own letter and releasing it out into the world. Hannah spoke, quite beautifully, of her letters as proof that she was here. That the people who wrote them were here. Even if now they’re not. As I stand here, recording these words for you, I am here. I know it because I feel my feet on the floor. I see my engineer Ben in the studio here in Glasgow through the glass, and his little wave makes me smile. And I feel the smile as a lifting of my face and a softening of my belly. You’re here too. Separated in time and space, but here at the same time. There’s a real magic to that. At least I like to think so, and I hope that you do too.
From the closing meditation
Hannah Brencher is an author, speaker, and the founder of More Love Letters, a global organization that promotes the simple but powerful act of letter writing. Her most recent book is "Come Matter Here: Your Invitation to Be Here in a Getting There World."
"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?"
Hannah Brencher
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HANNAH BRENCHER: It’s in this letter, and the letters that keep coming that Fall where I meet someone who isn't just my mother anymore. She isn’t just a caretaker or a person to call on a bad day. She isn't just an emergency contact. Somehow we’ve crossed borders and boundaries and we’re becoming friends. Real friends. This is new territory. It’s as if we knew the possibility always existed but, for the first time, we’re jiggling the doorknob and allowing ourselves to walk in this space, my mother leading me still. We give one another advice, acting as sounding boards; We send one another jokes, and letters, and packages. I watch her— and coach her from the sidelines. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Hannah Brencher is the founder of More Love Letters, an organization that helps people connect through the age-old art form of words handwritten on a page. In today’s episode, Hannah shares a story about deepening relationships when we slow down enough to express ourselves with pen and paper. 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 before we hear from Hannah, I’d like you to smile. Ultimately all of her work is about connection and joy, even in difficult circumstances. So even if you don’t feel like smiling, give it a go. And notice any change in mood that follows as a result. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. BRENCHER: It starts out as a game. A hide-and-seek of sorts. My mother scribbles love letters on paper napkins and sneakily places them in the bottom of my bright red lunch bag. Her memos to me, her daughter. Her reminders hidden in the mundane of daily life that someone, somewhere is sending light and love. These letters, always hidden somewhere for me to find, come from my family’s long and winding lineage of letter writers. My grandmother passed the tradition down to my mother. My mother passed the tradition to me, one adorned envelope at a time. And I’m planning to pass the tradition forward one day in the form of notebook paper that carries the scent of home. Even if all the postmen disappear, we will still have these letters, written on scraps of paper. It’s on a day when my family’s forest green SUV is packed up with Tupperware bins and bright blue IKEA bags that I finally understand why I need those letters from my mother, Why I want these letters to keep coming to my new home in Worcester, Massachusetts as we drive the 2 hours and 43 minutes there. A 10-by-10 dorm room with paper thin walls. I’m 18 and I wear big, bug-eye sunglasses the whole day, even though the sun never comes out. I don’t want my parents to see that I’m holding back tears. I know this. The moment almost all of us work up to, where we go off on our own and forge a new path, without anyone holding our hands. But I want five more minutes to just be small and in the protection of the people who leave the kitchen light on for me every time I come home. The summer leading up to going off to college is different than I imagined. My mother spends her best hours in a hospital room, sitting beside her mother who is slowly forgetting who she is. My mother’s summer smells of chalky blue hospital gloves as she tries to figure out how to mother her mother through the last part of the story. My father tells me the call will come soon. The one where I have to come home and bury my grandmother. Two weeks into that first semester, I pack a small bag full of black clothing and wait for my brother to pull up to my dorm. I get into his blue truck. We barely speak the same 2 hour and 43 minute drive back home to attend my grandmother’s funeral. When the casket is lowered into the ground, and the bagpipes play “Danny Boy” one last time, and the leftover finger foods are stored in ziplock baggies and placed in the fridge, my father drops me back off at my dorm room. I allow the chaos of new courses and new activities to sweep me up and make me forget the loss back home. Meanwhile my mother and her sisters go through piles of notebooks and letters from my grandmother. Her soft but abrupt handwriting was everywhere. She kept notebooks and journals and logs of books she’d read up until her memory began to fade. One afternoon in that first semester, I make a trip to the campus post office to check for mail. I love this trip. The long walk through the hills of the campus and now, since it’s October, I can watch the leaves change from a youthful green to a crimson red. Slowly but steadily, the Autumn is coming in and bidding the leaves to break off from the only thing they’ve ever known. This is the one time death has ever looked this beautiful and necessary to me. I enter the small post office. I turn the corner to find my box. It’s at eye-level. I fidget with the lock: Right. Left. Full circle right. Full stop. 34. 8. 24. I jingle the lock and watch the small box open up. It’s a letter from home. My mother’s familiar handwriting, thin and spreading out on the page like it’s in no hurry to be tidy or proper, cascades across the envelope. The envelope is a bright turquoise color. I know this is not the original envelope. I’m a rule follower. I buy the card with the envelope assigned to it. Not my mother. She picks the brightest envelopes she can find. Deep purples. Sunflower yellow. A regal blue. Anything but plain white. GUNATILLAKE: What colours can you see around you? Do they feel bright and sharp? Or dull and flat? And even if you have your eyes closed, what’s here to be seen? BRENCHER: I don’t carry the letter back to my dorm room. I open the envelope immediately. I stand in the small post office, surrounded by students coming in and out of the space wearing backpacks and throwing the pizza coupons they’ve received in the trash, as I unfold the piece of notebook paper that came from a spiral bound notebook. It’s funny how letters can transport you. They can lift you out from the space you’re in and put you right beside that person who’s writing to you, from their corner of the world. In the letter, my mother attempts to spell out her grief in short sentences and unkempt cursive. I can feel the pain on the page, echoing off of her swooping “y”s and lanky capital letters. This is the first time she’s dancing with real grief. In the letter she tells me how she’s crying these days. She tries to hide the tears from others. She wants to be strong but nothing is the same after you lose your mother. She’s surprised to find the world is still moving forward. People are still calling. People are going to work. The world just keeps spinning but she’s trapped. She can’t go on pushing her cart through the grocery store, surveying the different types of shampoo for a worthy sale, when her entire insides quake with her mother’s absence. “I am spitting these days and I am finding it helps,” my mother writes to me. “I am spitting on the bathroom floor and it feels so freeing.” I don’t know who this woman is. She’s not the strong woman I’ve always seen. I picture her standing in the middle of the pink bathroom and hocking loogies onto the pink tiled floor. There she finds release for the pain. She finds an outlet for her grief. It’s in this letter – and the letters that keep coming that Fall – where I meet someone who isn't just my mother anymore. She isn’t just a caretaker or a person to call on a bad day. She isn't just an emergency contact. Somehow we’ve crossed borders and boundaries and we’re becoming friends. Real friends. This is new territory. It’s as if we knew the possibility always existed but, for the first time, we’re jiggling the doorknob and allowing ourselves to walk in this space, my mother leading me still. We give one another advice, acting as sounding boards. We send one another jokes, and letters, and packages. I watch her – and coach her from the sidelines. She picks up her mother’s memories and moves forward with only the ones she wants to keep – not the chalky blue hospital gloves or the sound of machines beeping. Not the long days in that stale hospital bed. She keeps the moments when her mother was vibrant and healthy, just as she would want to be remembered. Even though everything in my life at this point is texts and emails, I write to my mother. I pull out the paper. I embrace the sloppy handwriting that takes up two lines. I share stories with her, and I buy stamps, and I watch my words be tossed into a mail bin. The man in blue will get these notes to my mother who is 2 hours and 43 minutes away but, because of those letters, she feels close. This is a sacred part of adulthood I never asked for. I never knew I needed it. But one day, I hope my daughter and I cross over the same threshold. I hope she jiggles the doorknob and enters into the same space where my mother led me. When I’m 26, I’m doing my best to brave a severe depression that feels like a winter that’s lasting too long. I put on my coat and boots, take the car keys, and drive down to the drugstore, one of the only places still open on Christmas Eve. In the cards and notebook aisle, I pick up a two-pack of black composition books, faux leather and edgy in appearance. I buy a pack of silver Sharpies. I carry the supplies home in a flimsy plastic bag, take them up to my room, and shimmy the notebooks out of the plastic wrap encasing them. There, I begin to write letters to my one-day daughter. My daughter doesn't exist yet but, just because you've never met someone doesn’t mean you can’t see them in your mind, as real as ever. I see her springy ringlets, bright auburn hair, fiery locks that come from both sides of our families. Lanky in frame with pale freckles down her arms, she laughs like her daddy and she excavates her life for goodness and delight, like her mama. I haven’t held her yet and our hearts have scarcely met, but I’ve been writing her letters for years. I call my writings to her “fight songs” because they don’t look like the words in my own diary. They are braver. Pulsing off the page, full of potential, reminding her that one day, more than likely, she’ll find herself at a crossroads in the story. She’ll have to decide how she plans to fight for her life. Will she be gutsy and brave or will she cloak herself in words of doubt and frailty? I beg her to pick up the anthems and run towards the light. From this point forward, I fight through the depression with new purpose. I am no longer clawing my way out of the deep, dark woods for myself. I am stitching a better ending, a more reliable roadmap, for a one-day daughter who finds herself stuck in the deep, dark woods years down the line. GUNATILLAKE: What does this exercise of Hannah’s bring up for you? Interest? Judgement? If you were to do the same and imagine someone in your future lineage, who would it be and what would you tell them? BRENCHER: My iPhone pings. Another reminder pops up. As much as I try to find a quiet moment, there is always something demanded of me. All these technological rhythms are embedded in my day and yet what do they prove? They're not tangible. I can’t hold the texts I send close to my chest and trace them for a scent. The digital footprint – as mammoth as it may be – isn’t proof that you and I were here. That we lived. That we loved. That we danced in the kitchen to no music at all, or that we held someone’s hand or made them a cup of herbal tea when their world came crashing down around them. But I still have the proof. In scraps of notebook paper. In folded cards from my mother. In cards from my husband, sneakily tucked inside of a book I’m devouring while my head is turned. These things – the feeling of them against my fingertips or the sight of them stacked in a cigar box – are the proof to me that I was here. That she was here. That he was here. That we all showed up and tried to live with all the guts we could. That we rejoiced. That we cried the salty tears and spat on the bathroom floors. That we never forgot the way it felt to go to the mailbox and find a personal piece of someone waiting for you. It’s the letters, tattered, and worn, and losing their ink in some places, that I’ll keep holding onto. I’ll hold them tight and keep them safe. Hold them tighter when grief stands in the doorway and asks to go another round. Even tighter when the night is thick and the darkness feels endless and I need a hand to hold onto. I’ll keep holding them tight – tighter and tighter – and extra tight when the day comes, the day when I can no longer hold you. GUNATILLAKE: Listening to Hannah, what really struck me was just how many similarities there are between the act, the art of letter writing and that of meditation. Both start with intention, with heart. Then that intention, through thought, turns into action, into movement, the movement of the hand, marks on a page. Those marks are now an object – a representation of our inner experience, our inner life – now outside. That journey, taking our inner experience which we feel so personally and making it an object, something we can observe outside of ourselves and reflect upon is the journey of meditation. And it’s a journey, a movement which can be so freeing. And better still, shared with others. So, wherever you are, however you are, take a moment. Breathe. Smile. Let go of any tension you might have in your body. Do whatever you need to be soft and open. And if you were to write someone a letter based on how you’re feeling having heard Hannah’s story, inspired by it even, moved by it, who would that be? Bring them to mind. Let the thought of them bring joy if it’s here, and if there’s warmth in the mind, let there be warmth. Feel it. So. Writing the letter of this moment, a letter in response to Hannah’s story, what would you want to share. What feelings, what moods, what emotions can you name? What can you name, commit to paper, turn into something for another to discover? And if you were to write the letter of this moment, the story of this moment, how would your body express your feelings? Or in other words, what would your handwriting be like? Would it be angular, full of tension? Would it be soft and round, open and playful. Would there be capital letters? What does sadness look like on the page? The letter written, now imagine your special person receiving it, moved to be hearing from you – and in such a personal way. Sensing that image, sensing into it. And make the intention that when you recall listening to this episode, and you have the time, of writing your own letter and releasing it out into the world. Hannah spoke, quite beautifully, of her letters as proof that she was here. That the people who wrote them were here. Even if now they’re not. As I stand here, recording these words for you, I am here. I know it because I feel my feet on the floor. I see my engineer Ben in the studio here in Glasgow through the glass, and his little wave makes me smile. And I feel the smile as a lifting of my face and a softening of my belly. You’re here too. Separated in time and space, but here at the same time. There’s a real magic to that. At least I like to think so, and I hope that you do too.
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When's the last time you hand-wrote a letter? Author Hannah Brencher shares a simple story about the value of connecting on paper.
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When's the last time you hand-wrote a letter? Author Hannah Brencher shares a simple story about the value of connecting on paper.
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One envelope at a time
HANNAH BRENCHER
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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About Hannah Brencher
Hannah Brencher
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Hannah Brencher
Episode Transcript
While in college, author and speaker Hannah Brencher started the simple habit of exchanging letters with her mom. And it is in these letters where she finds deeper connection and meaning. When our lives feel too sped up, too digitally processed, there's something deeply grounding about capturing our thoughts and feelings by hand — with pen and paper.
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HANNAH'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Writing the letter of this moment, a letter in response to Hannah’s story, what would you want to share. What feelings, what moods, what emotions can you name? What can you name, commit to paper, turn into something for another to discover? And if you were to write the letter of this moment, the story of this moment, how would your body express your feelings?
HANNAH'S MEDITATIVE STORY
CONNECTION
HANNAH BRENCHER
One envelope at a time
Listen
While in college, author and speaker Hannah Brencher started the simple habit of exchanging letters with her mom. And it is in these letters where she finds deeper connection and meaning. When our lives feel too sped up, too digitally processed, there's something deeply grounding about capturing our thoughts and feelings by hand — with pen and paper.
LOVE
Hannah Brencher is an author, speaker, and the founder of More Love Letters, a global organization that promotes the simple but powerful act of letter writing. Her most recent book is "Come Matter Here: Your Invitation to Be Here in a Getting There World."
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
STEPHEN KUUSISTO: When I was just shy of four my parents and I boarded an ocean liner bound for Sweden from New York. Aboard ship I instantly disappeared. I was in love with engines. We were sailing to Finland, my father’s homeland, and I was restless and in love with every new noise. My parents didn’t understand: I was led on by chance music. There’s nothing lovelier. Sounds unexpected are magic, and aboard ship you’re inside a musical composition, which has no beginning or end. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Take a moment to close your eyes. In this brief breath of time consider sensations that do not rely on sight. Aromas escaping a neighbor’s kitchen; the crisp taste of winter air; the sound of pebbles beneath your feet; or the unexpected symphony of sounds on a city street. Today on Meditative Story, poet Stephen Kuusisto, who has been blind since birth, invites us to engage with the world around us by experiencing the sublime joys of an immersion in sound. 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. Take a breath, a longer breath than you might normally take. If you’re walking, slow down a little bit. Whatever you’re doing, drop your pace a tiny bit, so tiny that no one notices but you. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. KUUSISTO: My first spoken word was “door,” according to my father. He told me, “I’d carry you around the house and you’d name every doorway. Two years later you started running off.” I didn’t run for unhappy reasons. I ran because I was blind and in love with sounds. When I was just shy of four my parents and I boarded an ocean liner bound for Sweden from New York. Aboard ship I instantly disappeared. I was in love with engines. I found myself below decks aboard the Stockholm, the ship that just three years earlier had rammed and sunk the Italian liner Andrea Doria. We were sailing to Finland, my father’s homeland, and I was restless and in love with every new noise. My parents didn’t understand: I was led on by chance music. There’s nothing lovelier. Sounds unexpected are magic, and aboard ship you’re inside a musical composition, which has no beginning or end. I was unafraid to run pell-mell into darkness. Some blind kids are like that. And the Stockholm was pure strangeness with its huge mechanical stabilizers that sounded like barn doors rattling and which tirelessly labored to keep the hull from rolling in the stormy mid-Atlantic. On day three I escaped my father and improbable as it sounds found my way to the engine room. The great engines rattled like cogs in my grandfather’s tractor. The vastness of their sound, the whole-body experience of it thrilled me. My little torso became part of the scene, vibrating, thrillingly alive. GUNATILLAKE: What does the energy feel like in your body right now? Can you notice any vibrations of your own, no matter how quiet. KUUSISTO: The Stockholm’s engines rumbled through me like a mighty church organ. This was the first time I was thrilled by an entirely fresh sound and found myself standing still just savoring the experience. There were so many fabulous shipboard sounds. Our cabin was below the water line and fierce waves knocked at our porthole. My father told me trolls were rapping at the glass. I loved this idea. In no small measure, I believe this was the start of my storytelling life. Even at mid-ocean in the whiteout of winter, the Stockholm blasted her mighty steam horn. And there were bells on deck. There was a hydraulic hiss of elevators rising and falling. There was a vast shaking of metal. Groans and strange whistles. The wonderful shattering of glassware in a companionway. Dropped stemware and dishes. Rigging wind. And I learned the word “mast.” The Stockholm was showing me the simplicity and delight of chance music. Nowadays I think of all my surroundings with the Stockholm in mind. Each minute is a provincial ship. On the corner of Fifth Avenue and 38th Street in New York I stand for several traffic cycles. It’s just a normal intersection, perhaps even an uninteresting one. Cars, trucks, motorbikes, skateboarders and cyclists move from west to east. But then a chain falls off a bike and the cyclist lands with the smack of his flat oversized feet; he curses in Polish, the F-bomb, a word I heard first on a trip abroad some thirty years ago. Then three laughing girls appear. One’s a soprano, the other a mezzo, and the third one makes gargling sounds. Are they imitating someone? Is the third one choking? No, these girls are giddy. They’re a walking street performance. A cop passes with his walkie-talkie crackling. A bike messenger zips past singing George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” and now I’m laughing. All because I decided to stand and listen on a street corner others might find nondescript. GUNATILLAKE: Whether you’re standing or moving or lying down, can you feel the contact with the ground through your feet or body? KUUSISTO: Nothing’s nondescript once you really listen. John Cage, the great composer of chance music, said: “If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, then eight. Then 16. Then 32. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all.” This has been my experience. Not long ago, on a Chicago sidewalk, I heard a boy jumping on discarded bedsprings. He was making a stripped-down music from solitude and trash. The boy saw me listening and noticed my guide dog. Sensing an audience, he threw everything he had into making music with ruined steel coils. The music grew out of his blood. I’m guessing that if you’re a sighted person you’d have driven right on by. But I heard the maddened dancing for five full minutes before moving on. His feet punched and the mattress actually whistled as air escaped. I’d never heard anything like it. The dancer was offering his ragged composition to the damp air. I heard 16th notes; 8th notes. GUNATILLAKE: What notes can you hear in the space around you? What subtlety? KUUSISTO: I was feeling lucky, alone with my dog, the two of us having been on an ordinary walk, only to have discovered a bedspring symphony. Then the dance took a darker turn. It was now a steep narrative. Somehow he’d figured out how to make the springs sound like a tuba. Then he made the metal groan like a cello. I thought about Marsilio Ficino, the Renaissance man of letters, who said “beauty is just shapes and sounds.” Hearing a Chicago kid dancing out the secrets of a homemade dance, a “found” dance, I knew Ficino left out the lovely surprise of sounds. I was the boy on the Stockholm again who, whenever he heard chance music, went gleefully racing into shadows. As I get older I see more and more that listening to chance sounds is a great art and not merely the fun of boyhood escapism. Not long ago, I found myself in Boston standing outside the public library. I heard Giuseppe Verdi’s “Requiem” coming from a car radio. The car passed slowly with its windows rolled down. Hearing Verdi’s requiem alone on a summer’s morning I thought, if God exists she might very well be driving quietly around the library in Boston the way any peaceable spirit would wish to do. I thought of the pleasures of hearing without plans. The ordinary street was as weird and lovely as the mind itself. Back on the Stockholm pipes groaned inside the walls beside my bed. I love it. My John Cage boyhood. My daily place to stand. GUNATILLAKE: Chance music. The seemingly ordinary noise of day to day life revealed as chance music. Revealed by stopping and listening, open and attentive. What Stephen called hearing without plans. So taking Stephen’s lead, let’s try a little bit of that ourselves. If your eyes are closed, let them be closed. If they’re open, let them relax. The eyes soft. The muscles around the eyes soft. And opening your awareness, your mind, your attention out to listening. Listening to the world as it presents itself to you right now, a unique composition never to be heard again. Whether you’re alone or in a busy place, there is life here to be known. Life expressed in sound. Sounds near. Sounds far away. Sounds familiar. Sounds unknown. Sounds which grab your attention, which your mind is quick to label and build a story upon. Subtler sounds. Less obvious but just as worthy of being heard. Let your body stay relaxed. If you like you can smile, and let’s just listen. Listening out. Hearing without pre-judgement. Hearing without plans. If you, like me, are inspired by Stephen and his stories, can you remember a moment of chance music in your own life? What comes to mind for me is a storm. Lying under a corrugated metal roof unable to sleep, the rain striking a mighty beat. So if you’d like, try to recall a memory of your own. Remember the sounds, remember how it made you feel, how it moved you. Appreciate how the echoes of that time still have meaning for you in this moment. Ok great. And coming back to hearing your world as it is right now. If this moment was a memory you kept forever, what would be its tone, its story? While hearing the sounds around you, can you also sense how they make you feel? Do you feel calm or bright or quiet or joyful? Do you feel confused, bewildered, blank, or fuzzy? However you feel, it’s ok. And if you think it’d help you sense how you’re feeling, please do place your hand on your chest, your heart. I love the way Stephen describes the seemingly ordinary spaces we inhabit as being weird and lovely as the mind itself. Weird and lovely. May it always be so.
From the closing meditation
Stephen Kuusisto is a poet and author. He has written two memoirs, "Planet of the Blind" and "Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening," both of which dive into his life as a blind man. He has also written multiple books of poetry and is the founder of Kaleidoscope Connections, which helps raise awareness of disability.
"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?"
Stephen Kuusisto
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STEPHEN KUUSISTO: When I was just shy of four my parents and I boarded an ocean liner bound for Sweden from New York. Aboard ship I instantly disappeared. I was in love with engines. We were sailing to Finland, my father’s homeland, and I was restless and in love with every new noise. My parents didn’t understand: I was led on by chance music. There’s nothing lovelier. Sounds unexpected are magic, and aboard ship you’re inside a musical composition, which has no beginning or end. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Take a moment to close your eyes. In this brief breath of time consider sensations that do not rely on sight. Aromas escaping a neighbor’s kitchen; the crisp taste of winter air; the sound of pebbles beneath your feet; or the unexpected symphony of sounds on a city street. Today on Meditative Story, poet Stephen Kuusisto, who has been blind since birth, invites us to engage with the world around us by experiencing the sublime joys of an immersion in sound. 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. Take a breath, a longer breath than you might normally take. If you’re walking, slow down a little bit. Whatever you’re doing, drop your pace a tiny bit, so tiny that no one notices but you. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. KUUSISTO: My first spoken word was “door,” according to my father. He told me, “I’d carry you around the house and you’d name every doorway. Two years later you started running off.” I didn’t run for unhappy reasons. I ran because I was blind and in love with sounds. When I was just shy of four my parents and I boarded an ocean liner bound for Sweden from New York. Aboard ship I instantly disappeared. I was in love with engines. I found myself below decks aboard the Stockholm, the ship that just three years earlier had rammed and sunk the Italian liner Andrea Doria. We were sailing to Finland, my father’s homeland, and I was restless and in love with every new noise. My parents didn’t understand: I was led on by chance music. There’s nothing lovelier. Sounds unexpected are magic, and aboard ship you’re inside a musical composition, which has no beginning or end. I was unafraid to run pell-mell into darkness. Some blind kids are like that. And the Stockholm was pure strangeness with its huge mechanical stabilizers that sounded like barn doors rattling and which tirelessly labored to keep the hull from rolling in the stormy mid-Atlantic. On day three I escaped my father and improbable as it sounds found my way to the engine room. The great engines rattled like cogs in my grandfather’s tractor. The vastness of their sound, the whole-body experience of it thrilled me. My little torso became part of the scene, vibrating, thrillingly alive. GUNATILLAKE: What does the energy feel like in your body right now? Can you notice any vibrations of your own, no matter how quiet. KUUSISTO: The Stockholm’s engines rumbled through me like a mighty church organ. This was the first time I was thrilled by an entirely fresh sound and found myself standing still just savoring the experience. There were so many fabulous shipboard sounds. Our cabin was below the water line and fierce waves knocked at our porthole. My father told me trolls were rapping at the glass. I loved this idea. In no small measure, I believe this was the start of my storytelling life. Even at mid-ocean in the whiteout of winter, the Stockholm blasted her mighty steam horn. And there were bells on deck. There was a hydraulic hiss of elevators rising and falling. There was a vast shaking of metal. Groans and strange whistles. The wonderful shattering of glassware in a companionway. Dropped stemware and dishes. Rigging wind. And I learned the word “mast.” The Stockholm was showing me the simplicity and delight of chance music. Nowadays I think of all my surroundings with the Stockholm in mind. Each minute is a provincial ship. On the corner of Fifth Avenue and 38th Street in New York I stand for several traffic cycles. It’s just a normal intersection, perhaps even an uninteresting one. Cars, trucks, motorbikes, skateboarders and cyclists move from west to east. But then a chain falls off a bike and the cyclist lands with the smack of his flat oversized feet; he curses in Polish, the F-bomb, a word I heard first on a trip abroad some thirty years ago. Then three laughing girls appear. One’s a soprano, the other a mezzo, and the third one makes gargling sounds. Are they imitating someone? Is the third one choking? No, these girls are giddy. They’re a walking street performance. A cop passes with his walkie-talkie crackling. A bike messenger zips past singing George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” and now I’m laughing. All because I decided to stand and listen on a street corner others might find nondescript. GUNATILLAKE: Whether you’re standing or moving or lying down, can you feel the contact with the ground through your feet or body? KUUSISTO: Nothing’s nondescript once you really listen. John Cage, the great composer of chance music, said: “If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, then eight. Then 16. Then 32. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all.” This has been my experience. Not long ago, on a Chicago sidewalk, I heard a boy jumping on discarded bedsprings. He was making a stripped-down music from solitude and trash. The boy saw me listening and noticed my guide dog. Sensing an audience, he threw everything he had into making music with ruined steel coils. The music grew out of his blood. I’m guessing that if you’re a sighted person you’d have driven right on by. But I heard the maddened dancing for five full minutes before moving on. His feet punched and the mattress actually whistled as air escaped. I’d never heard anything like it. The dancer was offering his ragged composition to the damp air. I heard 16th notes; 8th notes. GUNATILLAKE: What notes can you hear in the space around you? What subtlety? KUUSISTO: I was feeling lucky, alone with my dog, the two of us having been on an ordinary walk, only to have discovered a bedspring symphony. Then the dance took a darker turn. It was now a steep narrative. Somehow he’d figured out how to make the springs sound like a tuba. Then he made the metal groan like a cello. I thought about Marsilio Ficino, the Renaissance man of letters, who said “beauty is just shapes and sounds.” Hearing a Chicago kid dancing out the secrets of a homemade dance, a “found” dance, I knew Ficino left out the lovely surprise of sounds. I was the boy on the Stockholm again who, whenever he heard chance music, went gleefully racing into shadows. As I get older I see more and more that listening to chance sounds is a great art and not merely the fun of boyhood escapism. Not long ago, I found myself in Boston standing outside the public library. I heard Giuseppe Verdi’s “Requiem” coming from a car radio. The car passed slowly with its windows rolled down. Hearing Verdi’s requiem alone on a summer’s morning I thought, if God exists she might very well be driving quietly around the library in Boston the way any peaceable spirit would wish to do. I thought of the pleasures of hearing without plans. The ordinary street was as weird and lovely as the mind itself. Back on the Stockholm pipes groaned inside the walls beside my bed. I love it. My John Cage boyhood. My daily place to stand. GUNATILLAKE: Chance music. The seemingly ordinary noise of day to day life revealed as chance music. Revealed by stopping and listening, open and attentive. What Stephen called hearing without plans. So taking Stephen’s lead, let’s try a little bit of that ourselves. If your eyes are closed, let them be closed. If they’re open, let them relax. The eyes soft. The muscles around the eyes soft. And opening your awareness, your mind, your attention out to listening. Listening to the world as it presents itself to you right now, a unique composition never to be heard again. Whether you’re alone or in a busy place, there is life here to be known. Life expressed in sound. Sounds near. Sounds far away. Sounds familiar. Sounds unknown. Sounds which grab your attention, which your mind is quick to label and build a story upon. Subtler sounds. Less obvious but just as worthy of being heard. Let your body stay relaxed. If you like you can smile, and let’s just listen. Listening out. Hearing without pre-judgement. Hearing without plans. If you, like me, are inspired by Stephen and his stories, can you remember a moment of chance music in your own life? What comes to mind for me is a storm. Lying under a corrugated metal roof unable to sleep, the rain striking a mighty beat. So if you’d like, try to recall a memory of your own. Remember the sounds, remember how it made you feel, how it moved you. Appreciate how the echoes of that time still have meaning for you in this moment. Ok great. And coming back to hearing your world as it is right now. If this moment was a memory you kept forever, what would be its tone, its story? While hearing the sounds around you, can you also sense how they make you feel? Do you feel calm or bright or quiet or joyful? Do you feel confused, bewildered, blank, or fuzzy? However you feel, it’s ok. And if you think it’d help you sense how you’re feeling, please do place your hand on your chest, your heart. I love the way Stephen describes the seemingly ordinary spaces we inhabit as being weird and lovely as the mind itself. Weird and lovely. May it always be so.
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Listen
Author and poet Stephen Kuusisto, who is blind, hears life expressed in sound, the weird and wonderful chance music of everyday life. And he's able to find meaning, big and small, in it all.
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Author and poet Stephen Kuusisto, who is blind, hears life expressed in sound, the weird and wonderful chance music of everyday life. And he's able to find meaning, big and small, in it all.
LOVE
Allowing sound to reveal life’s wonder
Stephen Kuusisto
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Episode Transcript
PRESENCE
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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About Stephen Kuusisto
Stephen Kuusisto
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Stephen Kuusisto
Episode Transcript
We all experience the world differently. For author and poet Stephen Kuusisto, who is blind, it's through the ordinary noise of day-to-day life, the chance music. Standing on a street corner, wandering aboard a cruise ship – Stephen listens to the world as it is right now, a unique composition never to be heard again.
PRESENCE
STEPHEN'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Chance music. The seemingly ordinary noise of day to day life revealed as chance music. Revealed by stopping and listening, open and attentive. Listening to the world as it presents itself to you right now, a unique composition never to be heard again. Whether you're alone or in a busy place, there is life here to be known. Life expressed in sound.
Stephen's MEDITATIVE STORY
CONNECTION
STEPHEN KUUSIsTO
Allowing sound to reveal life’s wonder
Listen
LOVE
We all experience the world differently. For author and poet Stephen Kuusisto, who is blind, it's through the ordinary noise of day-to-day life, the chance music. Standing on a street corner, wandering aboard a cruise ship – Stephen listens to the world as it is right now, a unique composition never to be heard again.
Stephen Kuusisto is a poet and author. He has written two memoirs, "Planet of the Blind" and "Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening," both of which dive into his life as a blind man. He has also written multiple books of poetry and is the founder of Kaleidoscope Connections, which helps raise awareness of disability.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
CATHERINE REITMAN: My mom is an extraordinary beauty. She was once an actress, and a director, and a model. And as her career was just brightly unfolding in front of her she sacrificed everything to have me, my brother, and my sister. She told my dad that she didn’t want to miss our childhoods, that she wanted to give us everything she had not received as a child. And she did. She made every single bagged lunch with notes on the front, smoothies after school, kisses right before bed. And I remember always feeling both grateful for it and guilty about it. I was in awe of this choice she made. So I’m one month pregnant, and I go to see my Mom. I sit down with her on her very white bed, and share the news. “I’m going to have a baby.” But in her eyes, I see something completely unexpected. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: When life gets messy, and makes conflicting demands on you, what do you do? Has there ever been a time when you’ve said yes to one part of your life at the expense of another? Take a moment. Catherine Reitman plays Kate Foster on the sitcom “Workin’ Moms”. In fact, she actually created the show to help her through a time of great transition. Her Meditative Story reminds us of something profoundly important: Sometimes we have to live our way into the shoes we’re already wearing into the person we’re becoming. 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. Now, let’s ready ourselves to take in Catherine’s Meditative Story. If there’s any tension around, knowing it and letting it be here. If there’s any chaos, letting there be chaos. And if you can notice any calm, any steadiness, any stability, knowing that too. Aware of everything. Allowing anything. Radically honest. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. REITMAN: I started off as an actor – a largely rejected one, if I’m being honest. And being an actor is so confusing. You’re in a constant struggle to define your own identity: Can you call yourself an actor if you don’t get work? Can you believe in your own ability if you’re passed over for every role? You’re in this constant state of becoming. But you don't even feel the confusion until you start to get work. Deep in my heart of hearts, I know myself to be grounded, intelligent, loving, self-aware; a sister, a daughter and a girlfriend. But I keep getting cast as the main girl’s best friend, the confident bitch, or the quirky girl. And every job I get confirms that I should only be paid to play these sort of one-dimensional characters –characters that they see in me that I don’t necessarily see in myself. I look in the mirror and ask, “Wait. Is that who I am?” As actors, my friends and I dream about what it would mean to get that “one gig”. That one gig that will transform us from aspiring actors to working actors. From working actors to successful actors. That one gig that will launch us into orbit. But my voyage has a very different start. It’s 2013. I’m pregnant with Jackson, my first son. One month pregnant. It’s that period where you’re not supposed to tell a soul for good reason. But I have to tell my mom. Now, my mom is an extraordinary beauty. She was once an actress, and a director, and a model. And as her career was just brightly unfolding in front of her she sacrificed everything to have me, my brother, and my sister. She told my dad that she didn’t want to miss our childhoods, that she wanted to give us everything she had not received as a child. And she did. She made every single bagged lunch with notes on the front, smoothies after school, kisses right before bed. She devoted herself entirely to being our mom. And I remember always feeling both grateful for it and guilty about it. I was in awe of this choice she made. GUNATILLAKE: Is there someone in your life who made the decision to give you the things they never had? Bring them to mind, to heart. Thank you. REITMAN: So I’m one month pregnant and I go to see my mom. I sit down with her on her very white bed, and share the news. “I’m going to have a baby.” But in her eyes, I see something completely unexpected. Something she might not even admit. I see disappointment. She says: “You absolutely have to keep your career.” It’s clear in this moment. She knows who I am and what’s important to me. She’s giving me a permission slip of sorts to keep going after my dreams. Six weeks after Jackson is born, I book an independent film. I’m on set in Philadelphia, thousands of miles from my new son. Oh, and It’s Mother’s Day – my first Mother’s Day as a mom and I’m in Philly. On set, I don’t feel like myself. I’ve always been incredibly confident on set, like a well-oiled machine that could operate for hours and never tire. But now, I second-guess everything. I’m exhausted. I know I can’t do the hours I used to normally because I’m rocked. I’ve also always prided myself on being a gal who can hang in a boys’ club, who can give it back as hard as I can take it. But I’m on set in Philadelphia, on Mother’s Day, surrounded by male comedians, and they start teasing me. Hard. One of them offers to send my son a Mother’s Day card on my behalf. Another one asks if my son is calling the nanny “Mom” yet. Everything inside of me crumbles. All of my insecurities are triggered. Not only can I no longer hang with the guys, but I’m not holding my end of the bargain at home as a mother. I start to cry. I feel broken. I feel like everyone can see it. I still remember their faces. It was so awkward, and silent. I race back to my tiny hotel room – this dark, small space with a view of a parking lot. I feel like the walls are reverberating with my own inadequacy. And I sit there alone. Away from home. Away from my baby. I’m sleep deprived and struggling with postpartum depression. And I think about how I'm not talented anymore. I'm not pretty anymore. I'm not interesting or funny and I have nothing to contribute other than making sure that the other human being I dragged onto this Earth is going to eat, sleep, and have shelter. And I’m somehow not even doing that well. I’ve surrendered the identity I had before: that actor who could work non-stop and hang with the guys. But I haven’t lived into who I will become next. What a miserable place to be. GUNATILLAKE: We all live with self-judgement. The inner critic can be difficult to bear. Can you see Catherine in her room, in this moment? Imagine her thoughts. Take a deep breath and let those thoughts go on the exhale. REITMAN: I reach for my cell phone to call Philip, my husband. I tell him everything. And he says: “You’ve gotta write this down.” And I thought: “Oh, no. I'm gonna become some sad person who just writes her sad stories in a diary.” I hang up the phone. At that moment, I can’t see any value in what’s happened to me. But I also can’t keep it inside. I do what Philip says and I write it all down. I don’t see myself as a writer. The whole idea of writing intimidates me. Writers are smart. Am I smart enough? But I start to write, and it comes out fast. The words are tumbling out of me. And before I know it, I’m looking at six really messy but very true scenes. I write about crying on set in Philadelphia on Mother’s Day. I write about having to pump in every bathroom stall, car trunk, and horse stable available when I’m on set. I write about everything I’ve experienced as I try to live my previous life – without acknowledging that things have changed. I’ve changed. My old life doesn’t fit anymore. And I haven’t grown into my new life yet. As I read through the scenes, I see the way all the things that happened to me were humiliating and hard, but also, in hindsight, funny. And in these stories – these honest, wrenching stories – I start to see a bridge from the old me, the scrappy, funny, hungry actor, to the new me I haven’t fully become yet. The new person I don’t even know yet. And my friends help me bridge that gap. When you live in Los Angeles as an actor, and you’re constantly being rejected, you make a lot of friends who are struggling in the same way. People who want to create stories so badly that they’ll just lend a hand to help you make anything. I borrow people's equipment. I beg my actor friends. And we shoot eight minutes worth of material based off of those six scenes I wrote. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever done. And it changes everything. A few weeks later, I’m sitting in a restaurant in a hotel in downtown Toronto across from the general programming manager, Sally Catto, of the CBC. She’s watched the scenes I filmed with my friends. But as she speaks about the material. It’s not the way that casting directors, producers, directors, executives have spoken to me about creative in the past. She’s speaking about my material as if it were her own story. It’s in this moment that I know that this new show isn’t just a chance for me to have a gig, to work regularly. But it’s also the chance to tell the stories that I, and so many other women in my position, have felt. Sally green-lit the season. Thirteen episodes. I get the opportunity to write, act, and run my own weird TV show. We call it “Workin’ Moms”. If the show is to be what I want it to be, it means exposing it all. Showing my breasts and my body; delving into my postpartum depression and my innermost darkness. It means laughing at myself, and, yes, self-deprecation. It means revealing myself in ways that will change my relationships with everyone I know: my husband, my family, my neighbors. The week after we premiere, my uncle reaches out to me, frustrated that I hadn’t prepared him for the amount of nudity there would be in the show. I hang up with him feeling terrible. But the great irony is that my future would be riddled with these sorts of conversations – expanding as far as the principal of my son’s school. It’s now 2016, I’m pregnant with my second son, Liam, and I’ve assembled an all-female writing staff for the first season of Workin’ Moms. Until now, my acting credits include being a dead-toothed cat lady and a girl who gets verbally berated by a bunch of middle-aged comedians on “Black-ish”. But now, I’m sitting in the writers room, with seven women who have far more experience writing than I do. And they’re staring at me, and I worry that they’re thinking, “God, this was a mistake. Who’s this pregnant chick? She’s out of her mind.” I feel as though I don’t fit the shoes that are now on my feet. But then something happens. I go into orbit. It wasn’t a Hollywood orbit, where you rise like a rocket and become an instant star. It was a personal orbit. A growth period like I’ve never experienced. I have to take a quantum leap from an occasionally working actress with two children and a husband to the lead writer, director, and actor on my own show, where 200 people on set, every single day, look at me and say, “What’s next?” I don’t yet fit the shoes on my feet. But I launch into orbit by telling my own truth, and I know it’s the right path. When you’re surrounded by people who are far more talented and experienced than you, you have two choices. You can sit back and watch, go dormant. Or you can rise to the occasion. GUNATILLAKE: Rise to the occasion. If you're sitting or standing, can you lift up your chin just a bit, open out your chest? You can be subtle, but try it. Let your body mirror Catherine's intention. REITMAN: In my first year on the set, I feel fear. I feel like a phoney. I have to fake it until I make it. But I pivot and learn until I’m a bit more comfortable. Day by day, I grow into the role. I grow into the shoes that are already on my feet. And I remember the moment this hits me. Now, I live on a hill and I drive to work under all these beautiful trees that sort of meet together and form a canopy over the street. And I’m driving down that hill to the writer's room for season one. And the dappled light is shooting down through the leaves. And I feel like I’m sitting on one of the branches, looking down at myself, and I’m so proud. I was like, "Holy cow. This is gonna work. This is gonna work. This is gonna work." One day on the set during that first season, I bring Liam to work with me. He’s three months old and my milk had completely stopped. My body is just like, “Nope, too much pressure.” And I’m filming in a tiny little house and I have to breastfeed on camera. In the scene as it’s written, my character’s son rejects being fed. It’s the irony that my character has won all day at work but then she gets home and loses. The twin boys who play my child on the show are fast asleep. And since my little guy Liam is on set with us, I decide to use him in the scene instead. Quietly to myself, I’m thinking, “This is going to be perfect. He’s going to reject me since I’m no longer making milk, and it’s going to be this great, real moment.” I’ve got two cameras on me. The set is quiet. And suddenly, Liam latches on. He drinks. On camera. He hasn’t had a drink in weeks, which as a mother can feel like the ultimate rejection. And here he is, not only accepting me, but changing the DNA of my show. It changes the script. The episode now ends with an incredible win for my character. I can’t help but remember the rejection I felt when I was crying in that hotel room in Philadelphia and now to think that I had changed my own fate – that these boys were such a critical part of that process. I feel that in sharing my darkness I put a light to someone else. It’s in these moments that I feel I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing: Daring to use my own darkness and pain to illuminate my own path – and, hopefully, providing light for others to find theirs. I’m launching myself into orbit every day so others can do the same. GUNATILLAKE: The image that I remember most from Catherine’s story is that of her in her hotel room, far from her family and full of doubt, hurt, and self-judgement. And as striking as that situation was, it’s something so many of us have to face in our own way. Caught in the middle of stress and worry, our minds galloping away from us like a runaway horse, wild and frantic. When most people think of meditation they think of relaxation. However, I prefer to think of its central power being much bigger than that. For me it’s about dealing with the difficult, that’s what really transforms. So let’s evoke Catherine’s story and her memory and learn a classic way to deal with the difficult when it arises. It’s not the only way but it is a good one. And it’s based on the idea that alongside every emotion or mind-state, there are often corresponding feelings in the body. So when you are stressed, there is likely to be something physical that feels hot or energetic or tight. Recognizing what these are can help ground us and help soften any difficulty we are experiencing. So, whether you’re agitated now or not, let’s try this: Closing your eyes or keeping them open if that’s more appropriate, what sensations can you feel most strongly in your body? What does it feel like in your heart area? It’s ok. Just look at it and give it some tender attention. Letting the chest relax, just letting the heart area be held with the kindness of your attention. Maybe there’s some real tightness somewhere in your body. Maybe in the front of your body, the classic place for holding tightness. See which area feels most tight and give it some space. Letting the tension be there and not pushing it away. And if it wants to relax, then letting it do that. Because the body mirrors the mind, learning to feel what is in the body during stress does mean feeling unpleasant sensations. But the way it works is that not only does the body mirror the mind, the mind also mirrors the body. So when you relax the body, the mind will follow. If there’s heat, feel it and give it the permission to relax. If there’s tension, know it and give it the permission to relax. However your breath is, allow that and give it a chance to settle down. Allowing whatever you’re experiencing to be here, and giving it a chance to pass on by. Dropping out of the stories of the mind and into the reality of the body. And in the midst of the turmoil even allowing yourself to smile. Remember that even in the most difficult circumstances, when the world seems to be turning inside out, you always have the option to drop into the body. It’s not always an easy ride but with practice, it‘s a skill than can really help. And it can give you just the space you need to avoid getting sucked into the difficult – and instead use its power to your advantage. Just as Catherine did.
From the closing meditation
Catherine Reitman is the creator, executive producer, writer, and star of the CBC comedy series "Workin' Moms." The show features a group of friends dealing with the challenges of being working mothers. Catherine developed the show after returning to work with her first son.
"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?"
Catherine Reitman
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CATHERINE REITMAN: My mom is an extraordinary beauty. She was once an actress, and a director, and a model. And as her career was just brightly unfolding in front of her she sacrificed everything to have me, my brother, and my sister. She told my dad that she didn’t want to miss our childhoods, that she wanted to give us everything she had not received as a child. And she did. She made every single bagged lunch with notes on the front, smoothies after school, kisses right before bed. And I remember always feeling both grateful for it and guilty about it. I was in awe of this choice she made. So I’m one month pregnant, and I go to see my Mom. I sit down with her on her very white bed, and share the news. “I’m going to have a baby.” But in her eyes, I see something completely unexpected. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: When life gets messy, and makes conflicting demands on you, what do you do? Has there ever been a time when you’ve said yes to one part of your life at the expense of another? Take a moment. Catherine Reitman plays Kate Foster on the sitcom “Workin’ Moms”. In fact, she actually created the show to help her through a time of great transition. Her Meditative Story reminds us of something profoundly important: Sometimes we have to live our way into the shoes we’re already wearing into the person we’re becoming. 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. Now, let’s ready ourselves to take in Catherine’s Meditative Story. If there’s any tension around, knowing it and letting it be here. If there’s any chaos, letting there be chaos. And if you can notice any calm, any steadiness, any stability, knowing that too. Aware of everything. Allowing anything. Radically honest. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. REITMAN: I started off as an actor – a largely rejected one, if I’m being honest. And being an actor is so confusing. You’re in a constant struggle to define your own identity: Can you call yourself an actor if you don’t get work? Can you believe in your own ability if you’re passed over for every role? You’re in this constant state of becoming. But you don't even feel the confusion until you start to get work. Deep in my heart of hearts, I know myself to be grounded, intelligent, loving, self-aware; a sister, a daughter and a girlfriend. But I keep getting cast as the main girl’s best friend, the confident bitch, or the quirky girl. And every job I get confirms that I should only be paid to play these sort of one-dimensional characters –characters that they see in me that I don’t necessarily see in myself. I look in the mirror and ask, “Wait. Is that who I am?” As actors, my friends and I dream about what it would mean to get that “one gig”. That one gig that will transform us from aspiring actors to working actors. From working actors to successful actors. That one gig that will launch us into orbit. But my voyage has a very different start. It’s 2013. I’m pregnant with Jackson, my first son. One month pregnant. It’s that period where you’re not supposed to tell a soul for good reason. But I have to tell my mom. Now, my mom is an extraordinary beauty. She was once an actress, and a director, and a model. And as her career was just brightly unfolding in front of her she sacrificed everything to have me, my brother, and my sister. She told my dad that she didn’t want to miss our childhoods, that she wanted to give us everything she had not received as a child. And she did. She made every single bagged lunch with notes on the front, smoothies after school, kisses right before bed. She devoted herself entirely to being our mom. And I remember always feeling both grateful for it and guilty about it. I was in awe of this choice she made. GUNATILLAKE: Is there someone in your life who made the decision to give you the things they never had? Bring them to mind, to heart. Thank you. REITMAN: So I’m one month pregnant and I go to see my mom. I sit down with her on her very white bed, and share the news. “I’m going to have a baby.” But in her eyes, I see something completely unexpected. Something she might not even admit. I see disappointment. She says: “You absolutely have to keep your career.” It’s clear in this moment. She knows who I am and what’s important to me. She’s giving me a permission slip of sorts to keep going after my dreams. Six weeks after Jackson is born, I book an independent film. I’m on set in Philadelphia, thousands of miles from my new son. Oh, and It’s Mother’s Day – my first Mother’s Day as a mom and I’m in Philly. On set, I don’t feel like myself. I’ve always been incredibly confident on set, like a well-oiled machine that could operate for hours and never tire. But now, I second-guess everything. I’m exhausted. I know I can’t do the hours I used to normally because I’m rocked. I’ve also always prided myself on being a gal who can hang in a boys’ club, who can give it back as hard as I can take it. But I’m on set in Philadelphia, on Mother’s Day, surrounded by male comedians, and they start teasing me. Hard. One of them offers to send my son a Mother’s Day card on my behalf. Another one asks if my son is calling the nanny “Mom” yet. Everything inside of me crumbles. All of my insecurities are triggered. Not only can I no longer hang with the guys, but I’m not holding my end of the bargain at home as a mother. I start to cry. I feel broken. I feel like everyone can see it. I still remember their faces. It was so awkward, and silent. I race back to my tiny hotel room – this dark, small space with a view of a parking lot. I feel like the walls are reverberating with my own inadequacy. And I sit there alone. Away from home. Away from my baby. I’m sleep deprived and struggling with postpartum depression. And I think about how I'm not talented anymore. I'm not pretty anymore. I'm not interesting or funny and I have nothing to contribute other than making sure that the other human being I dragged onto this Earth is going to eat, sleep, and have shelter. And I’m somehow not even doing that well. I’ve surrendered the identity I had before: that actor who could work non-stop and hang with the guys. But I haven’t lived into who I will become next. What a miserable place to be. GUNATILLAKE: We all live with self-judgement. The inner critic can be difficult to bear. Can you see Catherine in her room, in this moment? Imagine her thoughts. Take a deep breath and let those thoughts go on the exhale. REITMAN: I reach for my cell phone to call Philip, my husband. I tell him everything. And he says: “You’ve gotta write this down.” And I thought: “Oh, no. I'm gonna become some sad person who just writes her sad stories in a diary.” I hang up the phone. At that moment, I can’t see any value in what’s happened to me. But I also can’t keep it inside. I do what Philip says and I write it all down. I don’t see myself as a writer. The whole idea of writing intimidates me. Writers are smart. Am I smart enough? But I start to write, and it comes out fast. The words are tumbling out of me. And before I know it, I’m looking at six really messy but very true scenes. I write about crying on set in Philadelphia on Mother’s Day. I write about having to pump in every bathroom stall, car trunk, and horse stable available when I’m on set. I write about everything I’ve experienced as I try to live my previous life – without acknowledging that things have changed. I’ve changed. My old life doesn’t fit anymore. And I haven’t grown into my new life yet. As I read through the scenes, I see the way all the things that happened to me were humiliating and hard, but also, in hindsight, funny. And in these stories – these honest, wrenching stories – I start to see a bridge from the old me, the scrappy, funny, hungry actor, to the new me I haven’t fully become yet. The new person I don’t even know yet. And my friends help me bridge that gap. When you live in Los Angeles as an actor, and you’re constantly being rejected, you make a lot of friends who are struggling in the same way. People who want to create stories so badly that they’ll just lend a hand to help you make anything. I borrow people's equipment. I beg my actor friends. And we shoot eight minutes worth of material based off of those six scenes I wrote. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever done. And it changes everything. A few weeks later, I’m sitting in a restaurant in a hotel in downtown Toronto across from the general programming manager, Sally Catto, of the CBC. She’s watched the scenes I filmed with my friends. But as she speaks about the material. It’s not the way that casting directors, producers, directors, executives have spoken to me about creative in the past. She’s speaking about my material as if it were her own story. It’s in this moment that I know that this new show isn’t just a chance for me to have a gig, to work regularly. But it’s also the chance to tell the stories that I, and so many other women in my position, have felt. Sally green-lit the season. Thirteen episodes. I get the opportunity to write, act, and run my own weird TV show. We call it “Workin’ Moms”. If the show is to be what I want it to be, it means exposing it all. Showing my breasts and my body; delving into my postpartum depression and my innermost darkness. It means laughing at myself, and, yes, self-deprecation. It means revealing myself in ways that will change my relationships with everyone I know: my husband, my family, my neighbors. The week after we premiere, my uncle reaches out to me, frustrated that I hadn’t prepared him for the amount of nudity there would be in the show. I hang up with him feeling terrible. But the great irony is that my future would be riddled with these sorts of conversations – expanding as far as the principal of my son’s school. It’s now 2016, I’m pregnant with my second son, Liam, and I’ve assembled an all-female writing staff for the first season of Workin’ Moms. Until now, my acting credits include being a dead-toothed cat lady and a girl who gets verbally berated by a bunch of middle-aged comedians on “Black-ish”. But now, I’m sitting in the writers room, with seven women who have far more experience writing than I do. And they’re staring at me, and I worry that they’re thinking, “God, this was a mistake. Who’s this pregnant chick? She’s out of her mind.” I feel as though I don’t fit the shoes that are now on my feet. But then something happens. I go into orbit. It wasn’t a Hollywood orbit, where you rise like a rocket and become an instant star. It was a personal orbit. A growth period like I’ve never experienced. I have to take a quantum leap from an occasionally working actress with two children and a husband to the lead writer, director, and actor on my own show, where 200 people on set, every single day, look at me and say, “What’s next?” I don’t yet fit the shoes on my feet. But I launch into orbit by telling my own truth, and I know it’s the right path. When you’re surrounded by people who are far more talented and experienced than you, you have two choices. You can sit back and watch, go dormant. Or you can rise to the occasion. GUNATILLAKE: Rise to the occasion. If you're sitting or standing, can you lift up your chin just a bit, open out your chest? You can be subtle, but try it. Let your body mirror Catherine's intention. REITMAN: In my first year on the set, I feel fear. I feel like a phoney. I have to fake it until I make it. But I pivot and learn until I’m a bit more comfortable. Day by day, I grow into the role. I grow into the shoes that are already on my feet. And I remember the moment this hits me. Now, I live on a hill and I drive to work under all these beautiful trees that sort of meet together and form a canopy over the street. And I’m driving down that hill to the writer's room for season one. And the dappled light is shooting down through the leaves. And I feel like I’m sitting on one of the branches, looking down at myself, and I’m so proud. I was like, "Holy cow. This is gonna work. This is gonna work. This is gonna work." One day on the set during that first season, I bring Liam to work with me. He’s three months old and my milk had completely stopped. My body is just like, “Nope, too much pressure.” And I’m filming in a tiny little house and I have to breastfeed on camera. In the scene as it’s written, my character’s son rejects being fed. It’s the irony that my character has won all day at work but then she gets home and loses. The twin boys who play my child on the show are fast asleep. And since my little guy Liam is on set with us, I decide to use him in the scene instead. Quietly to myself, I’m thinking, “This is going to be perfect. He’s going to reject me since I’m no longer making milk, and it’s going to be this great, real moment.” I’ve got two cameras on me. The set is quiet. And suddenly, Liam latches on. He drinks. On camera. He hasn’t had a drink in weeks, which as a mother can feel like the ultimate rejection. And here he is, not only accepting me, but changing the DNA of my show. It changes the script. The episode now ends with an incredible win for my character. I can’t help but remember the rejection I felt when I was crying in that hotel room in Philadelphia and now to think that I had changed my own fate – that these boys were such a critical part of that process. I feel that in sharing my darkness I put a light to someone else. It’s in these moments that I feel I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing: Daring to use my own darkness and pain to illuminate my own path – and, hopefully, providing light for others to find theirs. I’m launching myself into orbit every day so others can do the same. GUNATILLAKE: The image that I remember most from Catherine’s story is that of her in her hotel room, far from her family and full of doubt, hurt, and self-judgement. And as striking as that situation was, it’s something so many of us have to face in our own way. Caught in the middle of stress and worry, our minds galloping away from us like a runaway horse, wild and frantic. When most people think of meditation they think of relaxation. However, I prefer to think of its central power being much bigger than that. For me it’s about dealing with the difficult, that’s what really transforms. So let’s evoke Catherine’s story and her memory and learn a classic way to deal with the difficult when it arises. It’s not the only way but it is a good one. And it’s based on the idea that alongside every emotion or mind-state, there are often corresponding feelings in the body. So when you are stressed, there is likely to be something physical that feels hot or energetic or tight. Recognizing what these are can help ground us and help soften any difficulty we are experiencing. So, whether you’re agitated now or not, let’s try this: Closing your eyes or keeping them open if that’s more appropriate, what sensations can you feel most strongly in your body? What does it feel like in your heart area? It’s ok. Just look at it and give it some tender attention. Letting the chest relax, just letting the heart area be held with the kindness of your attention. Maybe there’s some real tightness somewhere in your body. Maybe in the front of your body, the classic place for holding tightness. See which area feels most tight and give it some space. Letting the tension be there and not pushing it away. And if it wants to relax, then letting it do that. Because the body mirrors the mind, learning to feel what is in the body during stress does mean feeling unpleasant sensations. But the way it works is that not only does the body mirror the mind, the mind also mirrors the body. So when you relax the body, the mind will follow. If there’s heat, feel it and give it the permission to relax. If there’s tension, know it and give it the permission to relax. However your breath is, allow that and give it a chance to settle down. Allowing whatever you’re experiencing to be here, and giving it a chance to pass on by. Dropping out of the stories of the mind and into the reality of the body. And in the midst of the turmoil even allowing yourself to smile. Remember that even in the most difficult circumstances, when the world seems to be turning inside out, you always have the option to drop into the body. It’s not always an easy ride but with practice, it‘s a skill than can really help. And it can give you just the space you need to avoid getting sucked into the difficult – and instead use its power to your advantage. Just as Catherine did.
TRUST
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As an actor and a new mom, Catherine Reitman felt pulled between two competing identities. To capture her frustration, her sadness, her truth, she wrote it all down. In sharing her darkness, she found a way to turn a light on for someone else.
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As an actor and a new mom, Catherine Reitman felt pulled between two competing identities. To capture her frustration, her sadness, her truth, she wrote it all down. In sharing her darkness, she found a way to turn a light on for someone else.
LOVE
Surrendering my old identity — and finding myself
CATHERINE reitman
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Episode Transcript
CLARITY
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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About Catherine Reitman
Catherine Reitman
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Catherine Reitman
Episode Transcript
After she had her first child, Catherine Reitman felt pulled between two identities: the footloose comic actor and the committed mom. She needed to find a way to be both – to live in the shoes she was already wearing. How did she grapple with this life transition? Well, sometimes the best way to work through our deepest and messiest truths is to share them with others.
CLARITY
CATHERINE'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Remember that even in the most difficult circumstances, when the world seems to be turning inside out, you always have the option to drop into the body. It’s not always an easy ride but with practice, it‘s a skill than can really help. And it can give you just the space you need to avoid getting sucked into the difficult – and instead use its power to your advantage.
CATHERINE's MEDITATIVE STORY
TRUST
Catherine reitman
Surrendering my old identity — and finding myself
Listen
LOVE
After she had her first child, Catherine Reitman felt pulled between two identities: the footloose comic actor and the committed mom. She needed to find a way to be both – to live in the shoes she was already wearing. How did she grapple with this life transition? Well, sometimes the best way to work through our deepest and messiest truths is to share them with others.
Catherine Reitman is the creator, executive producer, writer, and star of the CBC comedy series "Workin' Moms." The show features a group of friends dealing with the challenges of being working mothers. Catherine developed the show after returning to work with her first son.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
KEITH YAMASHITA: Over the decades of my career, I have become fluent in this way of living: Cheating time. Compressing two tasks into one motion. Squeezing the most out of every single moment by not really ever being present in any of them. You see, I had so overdeveloped certain parts of who I was and so undernourished other parts. And that’s where all these puts and takes catch up with each other. And all the withdrawals I’ve taken were from one side: the need to be successful, the need to help others. And I’ve so deeply bankrupted who I am as a human that there’s nothing left to take. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Life does have a tendency to hit us when we are least suspecting it. Often it’s our bodies, perfect in their frailty. They give way and fail, reminding us that we’re perhaps not quite as invincible as we think we are. That happened to Keith Yamashita, today’s storyteller. Keith started his career as a speechwriter for Steve Jobs, and spent the last two decades working alongside visionary leaders and their organizations. From global corporations to social movements. The company Keith founded, called SYPartners, helps leaders articulate what greatness means to them – and then helps them get there. In his work, Keith is a builder of brilliant things. But the story he shares today is about something starting to crumble and what was revealed as a result. 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. Since we’re talking of revelation, however you might be right now, wherever you might be in this moment, what is being revealed? With your awareness bright and curious, what sensations, what feelings, what expectations and judgements are here to be known? The body relaxed. The body breathing, breathing by itself. Senses open. Mind open. Meeting the world. YAMASHITA: Where does my story start? It could start right here, in a car dealership. On this very first day of living back in California. On this first day of me trying to redeem myself as a father. I’m here buying a car, because, well, you can’t really do much of anything with kids in California without a car. I say to the first sales guy I see, “I have one hour. No more.” He gets up from his desk. I continue: “I know exactly what I want. I refuse to haggle. And I gotta make this quick, because I gotta get on a conference call.” He looks down at me through his bi-focal glasses. To him, I am just “that guy,” that irritating bossy archetype who no one wants to serve. We walk through rows and rows of cars. True to my word, within minutes, I pinpoint the SUV I want. I offer the dollar-perfect price that I know hits his margin. And then, true to his word, he shows me to a place where I can do my video-conference. You see, over the decades of my career, I have become fluent in this way of living: Cheating time. Compressing two tasks into one motion. Squeezing the most out of every single moment by not really ever being present in any of them. I gotta get on that video call. I situate myself: laptop open, headphones on. I take a swig of water. It trickles out of the side of my mouth. Odd. The meeting is now in full force. I take another swig of water. This time, the water escapes my lips, down my chin. And I feel the cold trickle as it makes it way down my t-shirt. Maybe I’m just not paying attention. So I turn off my laptop cam and mute my line. And I call my husband, Todd. He’s in New York, the city I lived in until just yesterday. I share the scenario: car, water, face, video conference, drooling. Drooling. Todd is hyper-logical and says, “That’s something you want to get checked out.” I tell the sales guy I gotta cut the hour short. I hastily sign the papers for my new car. I ask for the keys. And so there I am, driving my new car. I am having a stroke but I don’t know it yet. As my brain starts to deteriorate I try to make my journey to the local research hospital, but my path is hobbled by dozens of one-way streets all going the wrong way. Or I could also start my story here. I have no idea where my kids are. They are wandering somewhere, unattended, and completely innocent of where I am. I am flat on my back, on a gurney, being catapulted down the hallway. One. Two. Three. Four, I count. There are 12 people above me – doctors, nurses, attendings. The lead resident is asking me questions about the last several hours. “So you can’t feel your face. What happened before that?” They are now poking. Prodding. Taking vital signs. My inner voice is narrating the whole thing in my mind: “If X = your time left on the planet, X = zero, my friend.” We turn the corner. A door opens. Head first, I go into the MRI machine. It’s loud. Some people in these conditions suffer extreme claustrophobia. But for me, it’s the opposite. I am calm. Almost soothed. I come out of the MRI, I look up at the ceiling. Slow tears drip from my eyes downward over my temples. The tears pool in my ears. I’m crying for my kids, who may not see me again. I have clearly messed up. I am not going to get that chance to redeem myself as a father. GUNATILLAKE: Can you be with Keith here in this room, so stark, the loud hums of the machine as it moves him out of the scanner. Can you be with Keith in his emotions? So real, so direct. YAMASHITA: Or my story could start here, in the aftermath. Maybe this happened to me because I constantly chose the cause over me. The board meeting over helping the kids with homework. The finishing of the last email over being there at the start of dinner. Maybe this happened to me because I’m a great entrepreneur – but a bad dad. Maybe this happened to me because in trying to prove to you that I’m for your cause, I exhaust myself in the process. I wake up in the hospital, and I know I need to assess the damage. But I’m scared. I know my right side of my face is dead. My speech is slurred. My cognition is blurry. Not ready for a full-blown mirror, I decide to cheat it: Selfie mode. I lift my iPhone to catch a glimpse. But my face, in its mangled state, no longer serves as the passcode. Facial recognition fails. You know things are really bad when your iPhone gives up on you. So I manually punch in the keyboard and, my lord, my face! Not a single movement to the right side of the meridian that divides it. I cannot make a single cell move. I send commands to my right eye lid, I cannot induce a blink. I try to move my eyebrow, nothing. My nostril: dead. My cheek: immobile. I put the phone down. And I sit for two or three hours. Not moving. Not mourning. Not thinking. Not crying. It’s then that the all-powerful head of neurology tells me, "We think you suffered from a stroke in the base of your brain. There’s no guarantee that you won't have a second one. And second strokes at the base of the brain are far worse than the first. And third strokes there are almost always fatal." It’s in that moment that I realize that recovery is going to be hard. And my only hope is to prevent a second stroke. I think, really, my story starts a month later when I ask my doctor, “How long I will be out of work?” “If you are lucky, maybe six months. More likely a year.” A year? A… year? Who am I if I’m not able to work? I didn’t see it then but it certainly happened. The stroke became the punctuation mark of the long sentence that had been my life until that point. Not a comma, not a semicolon, but a declarative period that marks the end of a life as I had built it. The sentence that lived before the stroke: Prove that I can make a difference, even if that meant exhausting myself. The sentence that comes after the stroke: Nourish myself and the world in the process. You see, I had so overdeveloped certain parts of who I was and so undernourished other parts. And that’s where all these puts and takes catch up with each other. And all the withdrawals I’ve taken were from one side: the need to be successful, the need to help others. And I’ve so deeply bankrupted who I am as a human that there’s nothing left to take. GUNATILLAKE: There is real intensity to what Keith is sharing with us. It's a lot. So please take a moment to just rest. Acknowledge any thoughts that are arising for you. It's ok. Breathe how your body wants to. Listen. YAMASHITA: As I live my way into the second sentence of my life, I seek nourishment. It comes in moments I don’t expect. It comes in being very in tune with the pain of others. Nourishment doesn’t just come in the format of joy. My son, Miles, is in the shotgun seat. “Miles, the rules are that I’m supposed to drop you off and I’m not supposed to block traffic.” “Dad, I want you to park the car and go in with me.” He’s 12. It’s his first day of a brand-new school. He’s nervous. I’m nervous. In my old life, this is a day I would have never be present for. But now, I am here. I park. We walk down the street together. Within 15 feet of the front door, Miles turns to me to give me a hug and he starts to cry. He’s facing the entrance of the school and I am facing him. I see all his new classmates walking by, one by one. My interior voice asks: Is this the best way for them to meet my son? Not yet knowing his name, or he theirs, his classmates see him crying to his dad on the sidewalk. But Miles doesn’t care. He keeps holding me. And he keeps crying. I realize: Miles can cry in a way that I never could. He can seek comfort in a way that I never could. I've so often been a person who would not stop, could not stop, because the moment I stop I would get very sad. And when the projects stop, when the conversations stop, when the ambitions stop, when the aspirations stop, sadness sets in. I have, in some way, spent my entire life up to this point trying to run out of sadness’s reach. And here I am with my son, just learning to sit in it. I’m driving again. This time, my daughter, Coco, is in the shotgun seat. And the rule in our car is that whoever is in that seat gets DJing rights. My daughter Coco is in the passenger seat. She scrolls through the playlists on my phone. Suddenly she stops scrolling. “Dad. You have a playlist called ‘My Funeral Songs.’ How morbid!” I tell her, “I started this list before the stroke.” And I also think to myself, “What gay man in his right mind would trust his funeral songs to someone else?” I really did start the funeral playlist well before my stroke. A friend dared me to. I keep adding to it. I pick songs that capture how I want to be in the world. It lets me spend time with this question: How do you want to be remembered for the life you actually lived? That playlist gets a lot of use in these car rides. And they lead to other playlists, which leads to conversations and ideas, and worries, and squabbles between friends.These drives become a way to see my kids in a way that I never really did before. In the midst of my recovery, I meet with an osteopath. I'm lying down on the examination table. My eyes are closed. His hands are cradling my neck and back of my head. He asks me to visualize a light source in my body. To make it easy, he says to make it a light bulb. "Okay, take that light. What wattage is it as a light bulb?" "It's a hundred-watt bulb,” I answer. "Light bulbs can also have dimmers. Is it up? Down?" "It's full on." “What wattage would it need to be to light up everyone in your life?", he asks. "A thousand-watt bulb?" I respond. "Why would you stop at a thousand-watt bulb?" "I don't know… Fine! An infinite-watt bulb." "Okay, turn the bulb in your mind into an infinite-watt bulb." His hands are on the back of my neck. I'm trying to turn up this light in my mind's eye and it's really hard. I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying, and I'm not able to light it to that intensity. And then, all of a sudden, it's as if there's this profound explosion of light. I feel it at a cellular level. One one-millionth of a millisecond into that feeling, my doctor says, "Yes. Exactly like that. That's the power that you have always had,” he says. “You just don't know how to control it. And that luminescence is you, and that's what you are like in everyone's life. It’s time to learn how to harness that in a way that doesn't exhaust you." All this time, I thought recovery would be about getting my face back. Getting my speech back. Getting my brain back. As I lie here, at the beginning of the second sentence of my life, I start to realize this isn't a medical recovery. This is a spiritual awakening. My story, your story, any story – really is about the images that we put into our mind’s eye. Do they nourish, or do they harm?I have been very actively shaping the images that enter my mind. I visualize being whole. I’m lying on my back, I am far at sea. It’s night. There are no stars. There are only clouds. When I turn my head there is no shore to be seen. The gentle swells of the ocean feel like the earth breathing. And I am held. I see myself from above. The farther I move out on the scene, I realize how small I am compared with the vastness of everything else. This is renewal: To know that I am held here, but not at all in control. I don’t know what will happen next. But it is about coming to love mystery. I don’t know why, but I feel safe. And this is where my story begins. GUNATILLAKE: Keith has already said so much, so I’ll be brief. And reflecting on his story and his words, one thing jumps out, one question: What’s important? So for our meditation together let’s sit, stand, lie down, move with that question. And before we do, just warming up, cooling down, opening out with a breath. And dropping the question into the mind: What’s important? And listening to the response. There might be a clear answer, or confusion as to what I’ve just asked you to do, or something else. That’s ok. What’s important? Right now, what’s important? Sensations, thoughts, emotions, silence. What is your answer? Each time we ask the question, each time we invite the answer, imagine unravelling, crumbling, revealing more and more subtlety. So, what’s important? Hold that question in the mind. And be open, listen to what arises. Again, that might be confusion. If that’s what’s here then that’s what’s here. Asking a repeated question like this isn’t really about the answer. It’s about the stance of the mind, awake, subtle, charged, curious. What’s important? Thank you. Do remember that because the experiences we share on Meditative Story can be so powerful, they can bring up all sorts of stuff for you. If that ever happens, do take care of yourself and do what you need to do to reset and reconnect.
From the closing meditation
Keith Yamashita is the founder and chair of SYPartners, which works with CEOs and their leadership teams to build human-centered and human-focuses companies and organizations. Keith is also an author and essayist on leadership and design, having published in the Harvard Business Review and several journals. He has alsolectured at the Yale School of Management, Stanford Business School, and the Jack F. Welch Leadership Center.
"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?"
Keith Yamashita
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KEITH YAMASHITA: Over the decades of my career, I have become fluent in this way of living: Cheating time. Compressing two tasks into one motion. Squeezing the most out of every single moment by not really ever being present in any of them. You see, I had so overdeveloped certain parts of who I was and so undernourished other parts. And that’s where all these puts and takes catch up with each other. And all the withdrawals I’ve taken were from one side: the need to be successful, the need to help others. And I’ve so deeply bankrupted who I am as a human that there’s nothing left to take. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Life does have a tendency to hit us when we are least suspecting it. Often it’s our bodies, perfect in their frailty. They give way and fail, reminding us that we’re perhaps not quite as invincible as we think we are. That happened to Keith Yamashita, today’s storyteller. Keith started his career as a speechwriter for Steve Jobs, and spent the last two decades working alongside visionary leaders and their organizations. From global corporations to social movements. The company Keith founded, called SYPartners, helps leaders articulate what greatness means to them – and then helps them get there. In his work, Keith is a builder of brilliant things. But the story he shares today is about something starting to crumble and what was revealed as a result. 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. Since we’re talking of revelation, however you might be right now, wherever you might be in this moment, what is being revealed? With your awareness bright and curious, what sensations, what feelings, what expectations and judgements are here to be known? The body relaxed. The body breathing, breathing by itself. Senses open. Mind open. Meeting the world. YAMASHITA: Where does my story start? It could start right here, in a car dealership. On this very first day of living back in California. On this first day of me trying to redeem myself as a father. I’m here buying a car, because, well, you can’t really do much of anything with kids in California without a car. I say to the first sales guy I see, “I have one hour. No more.” He gets up from his desk. I continue: “I know exactly what I want. I refuse to haggle. And I gotta make this quick, because I gotta get on a conference call.” He looks down at me through his bi-focal glasses. To him, I am just “that guy,” that irritating bossy archetype who no one wants to serve. We walk through rows and rows of cars. True to my word, within minutes, I pinpoint the SUV I want. I offer the dollar-perfect price that I know hits his margin. And then, true to his word, he shows me to a place where I can do my video-conference. You see, over the decades of my career, I have become fluent in this way of living: Cheating time. Compressing two tasks into one motion. Squeezing the most out of every single moment by not really ever being present in any of them. I gotta get on that video call. I situate myself: laptop open, headphones on. I take a swig of water. It trickles out of the side of my mouth. Odd. The meeting is now in full force. I take another swig of water. This time, the water escapes my lips, down my chin. And I feel the cold trickle as it makes it way down my t-shirt. Maybe I’m just not paying attention. So I turn off my laptop cam and mute my line. And I call my husband, Todd. He’s in New York, the city I lived in until just yesterday. I share the scenario: car, water, face, video conference, drooling. Drooling. Todd is hyper-logical and says, “That’s something you want to get checked out.” I tell the sales guy I gotta cut the hour short. I hastily sign the papers for my new car. I ask for the keys. And so there I am, driving my new car. I am having a stroke but I don’t know it yet. As my brain starts to deteriorate I try to make my journey to the local research hospital, but my path is hobbled by dozens of one-way streets all going the wrong way. Or I could also start my story here. I have no idea where my kids are. They are wandering somewhere, unattended, and completely innocent of where I am. I am flat on my back, on a gurney, being catapulted down the hallway. One. Two. Three. Four, I count. There are 12 people above me – doctors, nurses, attendings. The lead resident is asking me questions about the last several hours. “So you can’t feel your face. What happened before that?” They are now poking. Prodding. Taking vital signs. My inner voice is narrating the whole thing in my mind: “If X = your time left on the planet, X = zero, my friend.” We turn the corner. A door opens. Head first, I go into the MRI machine. It’s loud. Some people in these conditions suffer extreme claustrophobia. But for me, it’s the opposite. I am calm. Almost soothed. I come out of the MRI, I look up at the ceiling. Slow tears drip from my eyes downward over my temples. The tears pool in my ears. I’m crying for my kids, who may not see me again. I have clearly messed up. I am not going to get that chance to redeem myself as a father. GUNATILLAKE: Can you be with Keith here in this room, so stark, the loud hums of the machine as it moves him out of the scanner. Can you be with Keith in his emotions? So real, so direct. YAMASHITA: Or my story could start here, in the aftermath. Maybe this happened to me because I constantly chose the cause over me. The board meeting over helping the kids with homework. The finishing of the last email over being there at the start of dinner. Maybe this happened to me because I’m a great entrepreneur – but a bad dad. Maybe this happened to me because in trying to prove to you that I’m for your cause, I exhaust myself in the process. I wake up in the hospital, and I know I need to assess the damage. But I’m scared. I know my right side of my face is dead. My speech is slurred. My cognition is blurry. Not ready for a full-blown mirror, I decide to cheat it: Selfie mode. I lift my iPhone to catch a glimpse. But my face, in its mangled state, no longer serves as the passcode. Facial recognition fails. You know things are really bad when your iPhone gives up on you. So I manually punch in the keyboard and, my lord, my face! Not a single movement to the right side of the meridian that divides it. I cannot make a single cell move. I send commands to my right eye lid, I cannot induce a blink. I try to move my eyebrow, nothing. My nostril: dead. My cheek: immobile. I put the phone down. And I sit for two or three hours. Not moving. Not mourning. Not thinking. Not crying. It’s then that the all-powerful head of neurology tells me, "We think you suffered from a stroke in the base of your brain. There’s no guarantee that you won't have a second one. And second strokes at the base of the brain are far worse than the first. And third strokes there are almost always fatal." It’s in that moment that I realize that recovery is going to be hard. And my only hope is to prevent a second stroke. I think, really, my story starts a month later when I ask my doctor, “How long I will be out of work?” “If you are lucky, maybe six months. More likely a year.” A year? A… year? Who am I if I’m not able to work? I didn’t see it then but it certainly happened. The stroke became the punctuation mark of the long sentence that had been my life until that point. Not a comma, not a semicolon, but a declarative period that marks the end of a life as I had built it. The sentence that lived before the stroke: Prove that I can make a difference, even if that meant exhausting myself. The sentence that comes after the stroke: Nourish myself and the world in the process. You see, I had so overdeveloped certain parts of who I was and so undernourished other parts. And that’s where all these puts and takes catch up with each other. And all the withdrawals I’ve taken were from one side: the need to be successful, the need to help others. And I’ve so deeply bankrupted who I am as a human that there’s nothing left to take. GUNATILLAKE: There is real intensity to what Keith is sharing with us. It's a lot. So please take a moment to just rest. Acknowledge any thoughts that are arising for you. It's ok. Breathe how your body wants to. Listen. YAMASHITA: As I live my way into the second sentence of my life, I seek nourishment. It comes in moments I don’t expect. It comes in being very in tune with the pain of others. Nourishment doesn’t just come in the format of joy. My son, Miles, is in the shotgun seat. “Miles, the rules are that I’m supposed to drop you off and I’m not supposed to block traffic.” “Dad, I want you to park the car and go in with me.” He’s 12. It’s his first day of a brand-new school. He’s nervous. I’m nervous. In my old life, this is a day I would have never be present for. But now, I am here. I park. We walk down the street together. Within 15 feet of the front door, Miles turns to me to give me a hug and he starts to cry. He’s facing the entrance of the school and I am facing him. I see all his new classmates walking by, one by one. My interior voice asks: Is this the best way for them to meet my son? Not yet knowing his name, or he theirs, his classmates see him crying to his dad on the sidewalk. But Miles doesn’t care. He keeps holding me. And he keeps crying. I realize: Miles can cry in a way that I never could. He can seek comfort in a way that I never could. I've so often been a person who would not stop, could not stop, because the moment I stop I would get very sad. And when the projects stop, when the conversations stop, when the ambitions stop, when the aspirations stop, sadness sets in. I have, in some way, spent my entire life up to this point trying to run out of sadness’s reach. And here I am with my son, just learning to sit in it. I’m driving again. This time, my daughter, Coco, is in the shotgun seat. And the rule in our car is that whoever is in that seat gets DJing rights. My daughter Coco is in the passenger seat. She scrolls through the playlists on my phone. Suddenly she stops scrolling. “Dad. You have a playlist called ‘My Funeral Songs.’ How morbid!” I tell her, “I started this list before the stroke.” And I also think to myself, “What gay man in his right mind would trust his funeral songs to someone else?” I really did start the funeral playlist well before my stroke. A friend dared me to. I keep adding to it. I pick songs that capture how I want to be in the world. It lets me spend time with this question: How do you want to be remembered for the life you actually lived? That playlist gets a lot of use in these car rides. And they lead to other playlists, which leads to conversations and ideas, and worries, and squabbles between friends.These drives become a way to see my kids in a way that I never really did before. In the midst of my recovery, I meet with an osteopath. I'm lying down on the examination table. My eyes are closed. His hands are cradling my neck and back of my head. He asks me to visualize a light source in my body. To make it easy, he says to make it a light bulb. "Okay, take that light. What wattage is it as a light bulb?" "It's a hundred-watt bulb,” I answer. "Light bulbs can also have dimmers. Is it up? Down?" "It's full on." “What wattage would it need to be to light up everyone in your life?", he asks. "A thousand-watt bulb?" I respond. "Why would you stop at a thousand-watt bulb?" "I don't know… Fine! An infinite-watt bulb." "Okay, turn the bulb in your mind into an infinite-watt bulb." His hands are on the back of my neck. I'm trying to turn up this light in my mind's eye and it's really hard. I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying, and I'm not able to light it to that intensity. And then, all of a sudden, it's as if there's this profound explosion of light. I feel it at a cellular level. One one-millionth of a millisecond into that feeling, my doctor says, "Yes. Exactly like that. That's the power that you have always had,” he says. “You just don't know how to control it. And that luminescence is you, and that's what you are like in everyone's life. It’s time to learn how to harness that in a way that doesn't exhaust you." All this time, I thought recovery would be about getting my face back. Getting my speech back. Getting my brain back. As I lie here, at the beginning of the second sentence of my life, I start to realize this isn't a medical recovery. This is a spiritual awakening. My story, your story, any story – really is about the images that we put into our mind’s eye. Do they nourish, or do they harm?I have been very actively shaping the images that enter my mind. I visualize being whole. I’m lying on my back, I am far at sea. It’s night. There are no stars. There are only clouds. When I turn my head there is no shore to be seen. The gentle swells of the ocean feel like the earth breathing. And I am held. I see myself from above. The farther I move out on the scene, I realize how small I am compared with the vastness of everything else. This is renewal: To know that I am held here, but not at all in control. I don’t know what will happen next. But it is about coming to love mystery. I don’t know why, but I feel safe. And this is where my story begins. GUNATILLAKE: Keith has already said so much, so I’ll be brief. And reflecting on his story and his words, one thing jumps out, one question: What’s important? So for our meditation together let’s sit, stand, lie down, move with that question. And before we do, just warming up, cooling down, opening out with a breath. And dropping the question into the mind: What’s important? And listening to the response. There might be a clear answer, or confusion as to what I’ve just asked you to do, or something else. That’s ok. What’s important? Right now, what’s important? Sensations, thoughts, emotions, silence. What is your answer? Each time we ask the question, each time we invite the answer, imagine unravelling, crumbling, revealing more and more subtlety. So, what’s important? Hold that question in the mind. And be open, listen to what arises. Again, that might be confusion. If that’s what’s here then that’s what’s here. Asking a repeated question like this isn’t really about the answer. It’s about the stance of the mind, awake, subtle, charged, curious. What’s important? Thank you. Do remember that because the experiences we share on Meditative Story can be so powerful, they can bring up all sorts of stuff for you. If that ever happens, do take care of yourself and do what you need to do to reset and reconnect.
PRESENCE
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How do you rebuild a life after it very nearly ends? Entrepreneur Keith Yamashita tells his own story of how he learned to live again after a devastating stroke, to nourish himself and the world, and to take each moment as it comes.
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How do you rebuild a life after it very nearly ends? Entrepreneur Keith Yamashita tells his own story of how he learned to live again after a devastating stroke, to nourish himself and the world, and to take each moment as it comes.
ACCEPTANCE
Starting the story of my life again
KEITH YAMASHITA
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Episode Transcript
RENEWAL
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– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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About Keith Yamashita
Keith Yamashita
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Keith Yamashita
Episode Transcript
A trickle of water. That’s where Keith Yamashita’s new life begins and his old life ends. As an entrepreneur, Keith is fluent in cheating time, in squeezing the most out of every moment, never really present in any of them. But then a trickle of water rolls down his chin. A stroke. The stroke marks the end of an old life – and the slow beginning of a new one where Keith takes his life in a new direction.
RENEWAL
KEITH'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Life does have a tendency to hit us when we are least suspecting it. Often it’s our bodies, perfect in their frailty. They give way and fail, reminding us that we’re perhaps not quite as invincible as we think we are.
KEITH's MEDITATIVE STORY
PRESENCE
Keith yamashita
Starting the story of my life again
Listen
ACCEPTANCE
A trickle of water. That’s where Keith Yamashita’s new life begins and his old life ends. As an entrepreneur, Keith is fluent in cheating time, in squeezing the most out of every moment, never really present in any of them. But then a trickle of water rolls down his chin. A stroke. The stroke marks the end of an old life – and the slow beginning of a new one where Keith takes his life in a new direction.
Keith Yamashita is the founder and chair of SYPartners, which works with CEOs and their leadership teams to build human-centered and human-focuses companies and organizations. Keith is also an author and essayist on leadership and design, having published in the Harvard Business Review and several journals. He has alsolectured at the Yale School of Management, Stanford Business School, and the Jack F. Welch Leadership Center.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
MOJ MAHDARA: Mamani shows me pictures. Pictures of who she really is. Performing for 20,000 people in Dubai and Turkey. Pictures of herself with dignitaries during the Shah regime. Pictures with other big Persian pop stars. Pictures of her powder-blue Mercedes 450SL convertible. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Moj Mahdara is a serial entrepreneur and, as the CEO of Beautycon, plays a central role in the community of fashion and beauty brands and influencers. In today’s story Moj takes us back to her teenage years and how, while growing into her identity and her self, it was those of her two grandmothers that gave her inspiration and direction. 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. Let’s take a moment to check in with ourselves, to really be here and really listen. Letting whatever is here, just be here. Allowing your experience, your life to manifest itself however it is. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MOJ MAHDARA: The day I discovered that my grandmother was one of the great performers of Iran something clicked inside me. I understood why I wanted to run away from my parents’ expectations, dye my hair purple, and work in the music industry – specifically MTV. Suddenly, I made so much more sense to myself. At the age of 13 and a half, I know I am gay. There’s no hiding it, I hate dresses, and I look like a boy. I hear my parents fighting, screaming at each other. My mom says to my dad that his side of the family is to blame. That these are his genes. That this is his situation. The rebellious genes do come from my dad’s side of the family. My parents have never wanted me to know that my dad’s mother is this provocative, controversial personality in Iran. That she is a movie star. A pop star. My grandmother paved the way for Persian pop culture. My family called her Mamani, but she had gone by Afat as a star. It is snowing and ice-cold here in Erie, Pennsylvania. My grandmother flew all the way from Iran for a visit. When you come from that far, it's never a short trip. And since we're Persian, there's no such thing as a hotel. She’s staying in the den in the basement, for weeks. It’s a typical East Coast basement. You go down the stairs and there’s a bar and a sink, a bed and a couch. There’s also a pool table from the previous owners. Going down to see Grandma was like visiting a “bad girl”, a friend who your parents thought was a bad influence. One day, I’m upstairs and I hear her sing. And I think to myself, “God, Mamani can really sing.” I sneak down to the basement and she’s sitting on this couch that is thick and scratchy, upholstered with carpet. It smells like cigarette smoke and liquor – bourbon, I think. When she’s around, there is always music playing. Mamani tells me about the world. She tells me not to judge her for her dentures and aging face. She tells me that she used to be one of the most beloved women of our country. She explains that after the Revolution, she had to change her name, that she couldn’t go by her entertainer name anymore. She had to go by a Muslim name, otherwise there would be trouble. Iran isn’t a safe place for her to be who she really is. And she tells me the world isn’t going to be safe for me either. She tells me all of this because she knows that my parents are picking on me all the time. Especially my mom. My mom takes the most issue with my identity. She constantly tells me to act like a girl, and to focus on my school, because otherwise I’ll be a “hamburger flipper” at McDonald’s. “Your mom,” my grandmother tells me, “is just a scared person who doesn’t know. She’s not cultured. And she’s not traveled. And she’s not worldly like me.” This puts my who life in perspective. I realize that my mom’s perception of me is just that, her perception of me. It’s not actually who I am. Mamani shows me pictures, pictures of who she really is. Performing for 20,000 people in Dubai and Turkey. Pictures of herself with dignitaries during the Shah regime. Pictures with other big Persian pop stars. Pictures of her powder-blue Mercedes 450SL convertible. She’s no living an undercover identity as a normal person in Iran. But she knows her true identity. She is an icon. GUNATILLAKE: Do you know your true identity? Does that question even mean anything to you? As you listen to this, breathing, when it comes to defining yourself to yourself, what matters to you? MAHDARA: After my grandmother returns to Iran, I confront my dad: I don't understand how Mamani can be who she is, and still, my identity is a shock to him. Why is it surprising that I am rebellious too? Why does my nose piercing and dream of working in music disturb them so much. This is where I come from. How can that be surprising? I’m struggling with my identity. I’m Iranian but I’m also American. I’m female but I act and dress like a boy. I’m gay. No one sees me. My parents don’t understand me. They are angry and yell at me all the time. And I yell back. And I fight back. My other grandmother, my mom’s mom, Mamman Moty, is completely different – and really who I give credit for raising me. She lives with us. We share a room. She’s this nice, sweet older Muslim woman who never gets remarried after her husband passes. She marries into a well-to-do family when she was fifteen, and raised six kids. But her husband, my grandfather Mohamed, gets cancer and makes her a widow in her early 40s. There isn’t any value placed on her education, so she never learns how to read, really. And suddenly, she finds herself dependent on her kids, on my mom who’s the most progressive and independent of her kids. That’s why she lives with us. And even though I’m growing up in the house with my mom’s mom, it’s my dad’s mom that I feel most related to after her visit. My mom’s mom is just a devout, nice old lady – almost too nice. She never says anything bad about anyone. She is generous to a fault. If she had $5, she’d take me to Dairy Queen for an ice cream sundae. The chewy fudge and the banana are my favorite. Mamman Moty love ice cream and cherries. She saves all her money for gifts for all 19 of her grandchildren. We’re all aware of her love and how lucky we are to have it. And to this date, we consider her to be a saint in our family, an elevated human spirit who can do no wrong. My parents value education above all else. My mom challenges her mother to learn how to read. Her biggest motivation is to read the Quran. Then she becomes determined to become an American citizen. She needs to be able to read and write in order to take the questionnaire. She doesn’t want to be an illiterate woman. She doesn’t want to die like that. And so my mom teaches me and Mamman Moty how to read farsi at the same time. I’m in 3rd grade. It’s summertime. My mom gives us each a book to read a week. At the end of the week, on Fridays, we each have to write a book report. One in English for me and one in Farsi for her. My mom gives me a book on entrepreneurship. It is a thick hardback book with a smooth leather cover and gold designs on the spine. I am obsessed with it. So is my grandmother. We start studying every page together. We learn about Henry Ford. My grandmother loves learning history, this concept that the children of immigrants can come to America and then one day they’re like Henry Ford. She’s enamored with the American dream. History is a huge topic for us that summer. We read about American history and spend a lot of time debating the Civil Rights movement and what happened to Native Americans. We talk about the women’s lib movement and women’s right. My grandmother and I basically read all through seventh- and eighth-grade history together and debate along the way. My grandmother and I share a room that summer. It’s Ramadan, so we wake up at four in the morning to make food before prayer. Her janamaz, her prayer blankets, are worn and smell like her. She keeps them under her bed. On the wall are two pictures: the Prophet Mohammad and her late husband. The bedding is a polyester print with big flowers. We talk to each other all the time. She can be the best roommate. But we also fight. We argue with each other a lot about the racial injustice embedded in American history. And as someone with a torn identity, half American and half Iranian, I’m adamant that racism is a thing. I’ve experienced it myself as a brown kid growing up in the middle of the country. Mamman Moty sees my perspective. She is passionate about injustice. I think it’s because she comes from a place where she’s seen her own country turned inside out, a country that has seen great injustice. My Mamman Moty cries a lot. She is frustrated with how hard it is to read. Her nose runs when she cries and sweat gathers on her upper lip. My mom can be so hard on my grandmother. Mom is supporting her siblings, cousins, and 8 people live in our house at times. She and my dad work long hours to provide. My mom says things like, “We don't stop doing it just because it makes us want to cry. We're going to cry and then we're just going to get back to it.” My grandmother pushes through. She wants to stretch herself. She insists it’s not too late for her. She isn’t someone who quits. She learned to read at the age of 57. And she spent the last 25-plus years of her life, till 84, reading every book under the sun. She becomes a scholar on every topic you can imagine. GUNATILLAKE: Imagine being in the room with Moj as a girl and her grandmother, reading, studying, learning together. Can you notice their effort, her grandmother's energy and determination? What does it look like? MAHDARA: Thirty years later, the first time someone writes an article about me, it says I am Iranian-American and gay. I remember calling the publicist and having a meltdown. I know that’s not a normal reaction, but I just want to be seen for who I really am, an entrepreneur. Why do they have to put that I’m gay? Or that I’m Persian? Why do they have to take all the focus and place it on my identity? My wife is a big voice of wisdom in all of this. She’s Persian. And being with another Persian gives me a lot more pride – or maybe safety is more the word. I guess I would say I am a late bloomer in that way. My wife Roya will say, “You have all these tattoos and everyone knows you’re gay. Why are you trying to pretend to be this other thing?” I tell her I’m not pretending, I’m trying not to offend everybody. It’s unnerving that your identity can offend people. So right out the door you spend a lot of time trying to curtail it. But I dream big and have more ambition than I know what to do with. I am determined to make it. People who look like me – queer, brown, and butch – don’t make it as big and as far as I want to go. Whenever I am stuck, frustrated, afraid, ashamed, set back, the spirits of my grandmothers light a fire underneath me that keeps driving me. My devout Muslim grandmother, Mamman Moty, and my pop-star grandmother, Mamani. I am made up of these two different identities. A juxtaposition between my two different grandmothers. One who is Persian pop-culture royalty, rebellious, independent, and bold. She knows who she is, but hides her identity to live in her own country. The other is a devout Muslim woman who refuses to let her circumstances define her life. She is determined and tenacious. At the time of her death, she had read close to 10,000 books. The concept of creating yourself, being authentic to yourself, and authoring your own story – that isn’t some marketing gimmick. That’s something that I literally grew up knowing in my blood. My grandmas were both pretty hardcore. I think of the two of them all the time. I feel like they would both be super proud of me. They both had so many dreams for their own lives. They are with me whenever I face a crisis at work or at home. They guide me, and remind me to be rebellious and generous, independent and tenacious, and to never, ever forget who I am. GUNATILLAKE: I loved how Moj’s grandmothers inspired her – and in very different and completely brilliant ways. Each an invitation to live the qualities that mattered to them. The challenge for Moj then being how to integrate those qualities together. So that’s what we’ll do in our short practice together, invite two very different qualities and then see how they live together to create a whole. And the first quality we’re going to invite is openness and relaxation. Representing Moj’s paternal grandmother’s creativity, let’s invite it in the body. Letting the body be comfortable, the belly open, the breathing open. Loose. Relaxed. Letting the breath be gentle. Really feeling it in the belly. Powerful. Creative. Generative. The second quality we’ll invite is uprightness. Representing Moj’s maternal grandmother, her stability, her dedication, let’s invite it into the body. Letting the back be upright. However your body is, expressing stability. A strong, solid connection with the earth. Stable. Connected. Letting the breath be steady. Really feeling it in the spine. Strong. Determined. Patient. Now holding both orientations in the body at the same time. The back, the spine upright and alert. The belly open and relaxed. Dedication and creativity. Breathing here. Being here. Relaxed and alert. Open and upright. Her and her. United. Whole. Thank you.
From the closing meditation
Moj Mahdara is the CEO of Beautycon Media, a global community for content creators, celebrities, fans, and brands that covers fashion, beauty, and lifestyle; and is geared toward Gen Z and Millennials. Before Beautycon, Mahdara founded two branding agencies (Made With Elastic and MMA Creative) as well as a digital studio called Exopolis, which designed web IP for clients like Blackberry, Apple and Microsoft.
"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?"
Moj Mahdara
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MOJ MAHDARA: Mamani shows me pictures. Pictures of who she really is. Performing for 20,000 people in Dubai and Turkey. Pictures of herself with dignitaries during the Shah regime. Pictures with other big Persian pop stars. Pictures of her powder-blue Mercedes 450SL convertible. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Moj Mahdara is a serial entrepreneur and, as the CEO of Beautycon, plays a central role in the community of fashion and beauty brands and influencers. In today’s story Moj takes us back to her teenage years and how, while growing into her identity and her self, it was those of her two grandmothers that gave her inspiration and direction. 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. Let’s take a moment to check in with ourselves, to really be here and really listen. Letting whatever is here, just be here. Allowing your experience, your life to manifest itself however it is. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. MOJ MAHDARA: The day I discovered that my grandmother was one of the great performers of Iran something clicked inside me. I understood why I wanted to run away from my parents’ expectations, dye my hair purple, and work in the music industry – specifically MTV. Suddenly, I made so much more sense to myself. At the age of 13 and a half, I know I am gay. There’s no hiding it, I hate dresses, and I look like a boy. I hear my parents fighting, screaming at each other. My mom says to my dad that his side of the family is to blame. That these are his genes. That this is his situation. The rebellious genes do come from my dad’s side of the family. My parents have never wanted me to know that my dad’s mother is this provocative, controversial personality in Iran. That she is a movie star. A pop star. My grandmother paved the way for Persian pop culture. My family called her Mamani, but she had gone by Afat as a star. It is snowing and ice-cold here in Erie, Pennsylvania. My grandmother flew all the way from Iran for a visit. When you come from that far, it's never a short trip. And since we're Persian, there's no such thing as a hotel. She’s staying in the den in the basement, for weeks. It’s a typical East Coast basement. You go down the stairs and there’s a bar and a sink, a bed and a couch. There’s also a pool table from the previous owners. Going down to see Grandma was like visiting a “bad girl”, a friend who your parents thought was a bad influence. One day, I’m upstairs and I hear her sing. And I think to myself, “God, Mamani can really sing.” I sneak down to the basement and she’s sitting on this couch that is thick and scratchy, upholstered with carpet. It smells like cigarette smoke and liquor – bourbon, I think. When she’s around, there is always music playing. Mamani tells me about the world. She tells me not to judge her for her dentures and aging face. She tells me that she used to be one of the most beloved women of our country. She explains that after the Revolution, she had to change her name, that she couldn’t go by her entertainer name anymore. She had to go by a Muslim name, otherwise there would be trouble. Iran isn’t a safe place for her to be who she really is. And she tells me the world isn’t going to be safe for me either. She tells me all of this because she knows that my parents are picking on me all the time. Especially my mom. My mom takes the most issue with my identity. She constantly tells me to act like a girl, and to focus on my school, because otherwise I’ll be a “hamburger flipper” at McDonald’s. “Your mom,” my grandmother tells me, “is just a scared person who doesn’t know. She’s not cultured. And she’s not traveled. And she’s not worldly like me.” This puts my who life in perspective. I realize that my mom’s perception of me is just that, her perception of me. It’s not actually who I am. Mamani shows me pictures, pictures of who she really is. Performing for 20,000 people in Dubai and Turkey. Pictures of herself with dignitaries during the Shah regime. Pictures with other big Persian pop stars. Pictures of her powder-blue Mercedes 450SL convertible. She’s no living an undercover identity as a normal person in Iran. But she knows her true identity. She is an icon. GUNATILLAKE: Do you know your true identity? Does that question even mean anything to you? As you listen to this, breathing, when it comes to defining yourself to yourself, what matters to you? MAHDARA: After my grandmother returns to Iran, I confront my dad: I don't understand how Mamani can be who she is, and still, my identity is a shock to him. Why is it surprising that I am rebellious too? Why does my nose piercing and dream of working in music disturb them so much. This is where I come from. How can that be surprising? I’m struggling with my identity. I’m Iranian but I’m also American. I’m female but I act and dress like a boy. I’m gay. No one sees me. My parents don’t understand me. They are angry and yell at me all the time. And I yell back. And I fight back. My other grandmother, my mom’s mom, Mamman Moty, is completely different – and really who I give credit for raising me. She lives with us. We share a room. She’s this nice, sweet older Muslim woman who never gets remarried after her husband passes. She marries into a well-to-do family when she was fifteen, and raised six kids. But her husband, my grandfather Mohamed, gets cancer and makes her a widow in her early 40s. There isn’t any value placed on her education, so she never learns how to read, really. And suddenly, she finds herself dependent on her kids, on my mom who’s the most progressive and independent of her kids. That’s why she lives with us. And even though I’m growing up in the house with my mom’s mom, it’s my dad’s mom that I feel most related to after her visit. My mom’s mom is just a devout, nice old lady – almost too nice. She never says anything bad about anyone. She is generous to a fault. If she had $5, she’d take me to Dairy Queen for an ice cream sundae. The chewy fudge and the banana are my favorite. Mamman Moty love ice cream and cherries. She saves all her money for gifts for all 19 of her grandchildren. We’re all aware of her love and how lucky we are to have it. And to this date, we consider her to be a saint in our family, an elevated human spirit who can do no wrong. My parents value education above all else. My mom challenges her mother to learn how to read. Her biggest motivation is to read the Quran. Then she becomes determined to become an American citizen. She needs to be able to read and write in order to take the questionnaire. She doesn’t want to be an illiterate woman. She doesn’t want to die like that. And so my mom teaches me and Mamman Moty how to read farsi at the same time. I’m in 3rd grade. It’s summertime. My mom gives us each a book to read a week. At the end of the week, on Fridays, we each have to write a book report. One in English for me and one in Farsi for her. My mom gives me a book on entrepreneurship. It is a thick hardback book with a smooth leather cover and gold designs on the spine. I am obsessed with it. So is my grandmother. We start studying every page together. We learn about Henry Ford. My grandmother loves learning history, this concept that the children of immigrants can come to America and then one day they’re like Henry Ford. She’s enamored with the American dream. History is a huge topic for us that summer. We read about American history and spend a lot of time debating the Civil Rights movement and what happened to Native Americans. We talk about the women’s lib movement and women’s right. My grandmother and I basically read all through seventh- and eighth-grade history together and debate along the way. My grandmother and I share a room that summer. It’s Ramadan, so we wake up at four in the morning to make food before prayer. Her janamaz, her prayer blankets, are worn and smell like her. She keeps them under her bed. On the wall are two pictures: the Prophet Mohammad and her late husband. The bedding is a polyester print with big flowers. We talk to each other all the time. She can be the best roommate. But we also fight. We argue with each other a lot about the racial injustice embedded in American history. And as someone with a torn identity, half American and half Iranian, I’m adamant that racism is a thing. I’ve experienced it myself as a brown kid growing up in the middle of the country. Mamman Moty sees my perspective. She is passionate about injustice. I think it’s because she comes from a place where she’s seen her own country turned inside out, a country that has seen great injustice. My Mamman Moty cries a lot. She is frustrated with how hard it is to read. Her nose runs when she cries and sweat gathers on her upper lip. My mom can be so hard on my grandmother. Mom is supporting her siblings, cousins, and 8 people live in our house at times. She and my dad work long hours to provide. My mom says things like, “We don't stop doing it just because it makes us want to cry. We're going to cry and then we're just going to get back to it.” My grandmother pushes through. She wants to stretch herself. She insists it’s not too late for her. She isn’t someone who quits. She learned to read at the age of 57. And she spent the last 25-plus years of her life, till 84, reading every book under the sun. She becomes a scholar on every topic you can imagine. GUNATILLAKE: Imagine being in the room with Moj as a girl and her grandmother, reading, studying, learning together. Can you notice their effort, her grandmother's energy and determination? What does it look like? MAHDARA: Thirty years later, the first time someone writes an article about me, it says I am Iranian-American and gay. I remember calling the publicist and having a meltdown. I know that’s not a normal reaction, but I just want to be seen for who I really am, an entrepreneur. Why do they have to put that I’m gay? Or that I’m Persian? Why do they have to take all the focus and place it on my identity? My wife is a big voice of wisdom in all of this. She’s Persian. And being with another Persian gives me a lot more pride – or maybe safety is more the word. I guess I would say I am a late bloomer in that way. My wife Roya will say, “You have all these tattoos and everyone knows you’re gay. Why are you trying to pretend to be this other thing?” I tell her I’m not pretending, I’m trying not to offend everybody. It’s unnerving that your identity can offend people. So right out the door you spend a lot of time trying to curtail it. But I dream big and have more ambition than I know what to do with. I am determined to make it. People who look like me – queer, brown, and butch – don’t make it as big and as far as I want to go. Whenever I am stuck, frustrated, afraid, ashamed, set back, the spirits of my grandmothers light a fire underneath me that keeps driving me. My devout Muslim grandmother, Mamman Moty, and my pop-star grandmother, Mamani. I am made up of these two different identities. A juxtaposition between my two different grandmothers. One who is Persian pop-culture royalty, rebellious, independent, and bold. She knows who she is, but hides her identity to live in her own country. The other is a devout Muslim woman who refuses to let her circumstances define her life. She is determined and tenacious. At the time of her death, she had read close to 10,000 books. The concept of creating yourself, being authentic to yourself, and authoring your own story – that isn’t some marketing gimmick. That’s something that I literally grew up knowing in my blood. My grandmas were both pretty hardcore. I think of the two of them all the time. I feel like they would both be super proud of me. They both had so many dreams for their own lives. They are with me whenever I face a crisis at work or at home. They guide me, and remind me to be rebellious and generous, independent and tenacious, and to never, ever forget who I am. GUNATILLAKE: I loved how Moj’s grandmothers inspired her – and in very different and completely brilliant ways. Each an invitation to live the qualities that mattered to them. The challenge for Moj then being how to integrate those qualities together. So that’s what we’ll do in our short practice together, invite two very different qualities and then see how they live together to create a whole. And the first quality we’re going to invite is openness and relaxation. Representing Moj’s paternal grandmother’s creativity, let’s invite it in the body. Letting the body be comfortable, the belly open, the breathing open. Loose. Relaxed. Letting the breath be gentle. Really feeling it in the belly. Powerful. Creative. Generative. The second quality we’ll invite is uprightness. Representing Moj’s maternal grandmother, her stability, her dedication, let’s invite it into the body. Letting the back be upright. However your body is, expressing stability. A strong, solid connection with the earth. Stable. Connected. Letting the breath be steady. Really feeling it in the spine. Strong. Determined. Patient. Now holding both orientations in the body at the same time. The back, the spine upright and alert. The belly open and relaxed. Dedication and creativity. Breathing here. Being here. Relaxed and alert. Open and upright. Her and her. United. Whole. Thank you.
identity
Listen
There is power in finding inspiration and strength in generational wisdom, even in the face of other familial pressure. CEO Moj Mahdara found that wisdom in her grandmothers, at a time when she was trying to reveal her true identity. Their words helped Moj author her own story.
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There is power in finding inspiration and strength in generational wisdom, even in the face of other familial pressure. CEO Moj Mahdara found that wisdom in her grandmothers, at a time when she was trying to reveal her true identity. Their words helped Moj author her own story.
ACCEPTANCE
Standing in my own truth
Moj Mahdara
SIGN UP
Episode Transcript
Family
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
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About Moj Mahdara
Moj Mahdara
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Moj Mahdara
Episode Transcript
As a teen growing up in a traditional household and struggling to reveal her true identity, Moj Mahdara — the founder of the fashion media company Beautycon — finds her path through her grandmothers — each of whom couldn’t be more different than the other. Under blankets, sharing secrets and stories, Moj learns that generations before her, family members had fought to define themselves. It is through old souls that Moj finds the strength to stand in her own truth.
family
MOJ'S MEDITATIVE STORY
Do you know your true identity? Does that question even mean anything to you? As you listen to this, breathing, when it comes to defining yourself to yourself, what matters to you?
MOJ's MEDITATIVE STORY
Identity
Moj Mahdara
Standing in my own truth
Listen
ACCEPTANCE
As a teen growing up in a traditional household and struggling to reveal her true identity, Moj Mahdara — the founder of the fashion media company Beautycon — finds her path through her grandmothers — each of whom couldn’t be more different than the other. Under blankets, sharing secrets and stories, Moj learns that generations before her, family members had fought to define themselves. It is through old souls that Moj finds the strength to stand in her own truth.
Moj Mahdara is the CEO of Beautycon Media, a global community for content creators, celebrities, fans, and brands that covers fashion, beauty, and lifestyle; and is geared toward Gen Z and Millennials. Before Beautycon, Mahdara founded two branding agencies (Made With Elastic and MMA Creative) as well as a digital studio called Exopolis, which designed web IP for clients like Blackberry, Apple and Microsoft.
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
SIRI HUSTVEDT: A plant with nine small blooming flowers grows just behind Francis. I draw it quickly and then draw the wooden trellis to the right of the plant, the jug that stands in front of it, and the inclined desk behind it, on which rests a skull with no jawbone and a book. As I draw, I feel as if I am touching each thing, tracing its outlines with my hand. I look up and think to myself that the Bible is the color of dried blood. Then I spot the monk’s sandals lying under his desk. He’s left his cane or walking stick behind him, too. It rests at an angle on one of the trellis rungs. The sandals and the stick are poignant. As I continue to look at them, I have a keen sense of ordinary life and ordinary death. Everything that is alive will die. Our things often outlive us. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Expectation can prevent us from seeing what’s right in front of us. Our assumptions color what’s really there. Novelist and neuroscience scholar Siri Hustvedt is known for standing in front of a painting for hours at a time and discovering elements that others don’t see. 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. In today’s Story, Siri allows you to experience what it feels like to step inside a masterpiece and discover its hidden mysteries without prejudgments or expectations. One way of understanding Siri’s story is that it’s about attention. More specifically, it’s about what can happen when we allow our attention – allow ourselves – to become immersed into one thing and what can be revealed when that happens. But before we can immerse our attention, we first need to gather it up. So let’s do that. Asking yourself the question where in the body feels most steady right now? For me, it’s my breath. It’s gravity and its rhythm. Where is it for you? The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your eyes open. Your senses open. Meeting the world. HUSTVEDT: I don’t know what will happen to me once I’m in front of the painting, but I know that if I let go of my expectations, if I open myself to the experience of looking closely, I may be surprised by what I discover. We are all creatures of habit, and most of the time we see what we expect to see. Our expectations are pre-judgments, after all, and sometimes they distort what is right in front of our eyes. As I walk toward the building on East 70th Street that houses the Frick Collection, I tell myself to slow down. I tell myself that once I’m inside, I can take my time with the picture. I don’t need to rush. I tell myself the art is there just to be seen. All I have to do is look. I have a single canvas in mind: St. Francis in Ecstasy. Giovanni Bellini painted it late in the fifteenth century. I know it’s famous, but I’ve neglected it. I’ve never read anything about it. All the better. I haven’t been told what to think or feel. I take several deep breaths, pull open the tall, solid door, and step inside. I hear the clamor of conversations, see people milling in the hall, and worry that the museum is too crowded, but once I secure my ticket, walk down the hard marble floors of the hallway I turn right, and I feel my shoes sink into the carpet. It’s quieter here. People are speaking in low voices. The dark wood-paneled walls and the three tall draped windows on either side of the room that let in diffused light. It’s grand but comforting. I hear a man and a woman quietly speaking Italian to each other. I hear the word bellissima. GUNATILLAKE: It’s ok to take a moment to enjoy this lovely room. Feel the carpet, appreciate the quiet and the soft light. HUSTVEDT: I make my way toward the Bellini in the center of the wall to my left, I notice several people gazing up at the painting, which I guess is about four feet tall and four and a half feet wide. I find a spot to stand. I watch two older women pause to look at it for eight or nine seconds and then move on past me. A man is standing close to the canvas, his collar up, his thinning brown hair almost the same color as his jacket. I station myself to the right of him. I see the rather small figure of Saint Francis in the foreground. I see the tiny donkey behind him in a meadow, his ears pricked up, as if he is listening. But I let myself feel the colors of the big, peculiar landscape first: the many shades of green in delicate foliage, curling vines, and grass; the deep and medium browns and ochres of branches and slender tree trunks and fallen leaves and the saint’s cassock; and the many shades of cool pale turquoise in the steep rock cliff. The whitening blue-green makes me catch my breath. I take in the strong hit of cerulean blue sky at the top of the picture and the white clouds that interrupt the color as they float above a walled city. I think to myself: This isn’t one place; it’s three places: the rocky mountain zone of the saint, the green meadow of the donkey, and the remote city on high. GUNATILLAKE: The head, the heart, and your contact to the earth. Can you be aware of these three places all at once? HUSTVEDT: I take out my notebook and begin to write. I hear two people speaking French as they pass behind me. The jutting stone face of the mountain rises above Francis and dwarfs him. As I focus on his body, I straighten up, inhale, and expand my chest. I realize I’m imitating the saint’s posture and smile to myself. His hands are extended to either side of him in a gesture of reception, his upper body radiant in soft light. He looks awed but calm. There’s nothing wild or frightening about this man’s ecstasy. I’m afraid to stick my nose right up to the canvas. Instead, I lean forward, hoping I look inquisitive, not aggressive. I want to see his right hand. I think I can make out a tiny red spot. Stigmata. He has the wounds of Christ. One slender bare foot sticks out from under his robe. The man in front of me leaves just as my discoveries are mounting. I spy a little rabbit looking out from a crevice in the wall to the left of Francis. I’m stupidly proud of finding the rabbit. I discover a heron not far from the donkey perched at the edge of the cliff that becomes the meadow. I make out another little bird far to my left. Saint Francis and the animals. I remember stories. Birds came to listen to his sermons. He once tamed a vicious wolf. Didn’t hundreds of larks swoop down from the sky as the saint was dying? I study the rock formations, and I seem to see hands, paws, hooves, and claws. I wonder if the painter intended to make this allusion. A plant with nine small blooming flowers grows just behind Francis. I draw it quickly and then draw the wooden trellis to the right of the plant, the jug that stands in front of it, and the inclined desk behind it, on which rests a skull with no jawbone and a book. As I draw, I feel as if I am touching each thing, tracing its outlines with my hand. I look up and think to myself that the Bible is the color of dried blood. Then I spot the monk’s sandals lying under his desk. He’s left his cane or walking stick behind him, too. It rests at an angle on one of the trellis rungs. The sandals and the stick are poignant. As I continue to look at them, I have a keen sense of ordinary life and ordinary death. Everything that is alive will die. Our things often outlive us. GUNATILLAKE: Imagine you were captured in a painting, just as you are right now, wherever that might be. What story would that painting tell? HUSTVEDT: A guard approaches me. “You can sit if you like, ma’am.” He nods at a tall plush green chair decorated with pom-pom fringe right in front of me. His kind voice has jolted me out of the painting, and I realize I haven’t heard or seen anyone for some time. I thank him and sit down. It feels good to sit and lean back in the chair. I’m no longer facing the painting, and I let my eyes move across the room. The voices of the other visitors are suddenly audible again. GUNATILLAKE: Widen out your sense of hearing. Apart from my and Siri's words, what else can you hear? HUSTVEDT: It’s as if I’ve been away. Before I walk out of the room, I check my phone. I’ve been in front of the painting for two hours. It doesn’t seem possible. I’m not thinking in sentences. I’m between worlds. I know that it takes a while to withdraw from a painting. I walk into the hallway and hear the percussive clicks of footsteps on the bare floor. Instead of heading to the coat check, I turn left and walk into the enclosed garden. Late afternoon sunlight comes through the opaque glass ceiling above me. I seat myself on a stone bench adjacent to the room I have just left and listen to the rush of water from the fountain. My eyes land on one of two black frogs that shoot thin arcs of water from their mouths. I crane my neck and look through the window behind me. I want to catch a last look of Bellini’s painting. I see it from a distance now. I feel a small pinch of grief. Grief for what? Am I sad to go? Have I suddenly remembered the brutal politics of here and now? Or is it time, the time represented by the skull? Saint Francis will stand there fixed in wonder as long as the painting lasts. I push myself off the bench and retrieve my coat. As soon as I open the door, the wind blows into my face. I hear a car horn, the squeal of a truck stopping, and I make my way toward the Q train. GUNATILLAKE: When Siri looked back at the painting as she prepared to leave, she felt a pinch of grief. But that was her. How do you feel? Can you sense into what emotion there is a pinch of right now? What name would you give it? One of the most important things I’ve learnt through meditation is that how we see things, changes what we see. When we look at the world with relaxed, sustained attention, then our experience is different to when our attention is more scattered and loose. So let’s turn inside, and bring our attention to the canvas of physical, felt experience. What is painted here? Dropping just for now the need to get caught up in thinking or planning. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. And really anchoring your attention in the canvas of the body. No need to grant distractions any power. Rest your attention with the body and allow whatever to appear. What’s most obvious? Is there a sensation or area of sensation which stands out the most? The central character of your experience in this moment. Be it an area of tension, tingling, warmth or whatever, gently keeping it in your awareness, can you step closer and uncover more detail? Now, letting go of this area, what else is here to be seen? While the strongest sensations might call for our attention the loudest, what can you discover in the background? Let your attention roam around your body – to your hands, your face, your heart. Even to your eyes themselves. There is a universe of detail to be seen when we turn to it. What little details can you notice? What delight? Now rest back and let your attention fill the body as a whole. Switching your awareness to be with the whole canvas of experience rather than caught up in one detail. Notice how different this feels. How united. Siri spoke to us of how Saint Francis felt moved, his whole body open and in a gesture of reception. Full of awe but also of calm. Wherever you are right now, whatever position your body is in – moving, still, upright or otherwise – can it too be in a gesture of reception? A posture of grace, receiving whatever is here to be received. The simple sanctity of paying attention.
From the closing meditation
Siri Hustvedt is a novelist and essayist. She is the author of a book of poetry, seven novels, two books of essays, and several works of non-fiction. Two her novels, "What I Loved" and "The Summer Without Men," were international bestsellers. Her work has been translated into over thirty languages. Her most recent book is "Memories of the Future."
"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?"
Siri Hustvedt
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SIRI HUSTVEDT: A plant with nine small blooming flowers grows just behind Francis. I draw it quickly and then draw the wooden trellis to the right of the plant, the jug that stands in front of it, and the inclined desk behind it, on which rests a skull with no jawbone and a book. As I draw, I feel as if I am touching each thing, tracing its outlines with my hand. I look up and think to myself that the Bible is the color of dried blood. Then I spot the monk’s sandals lying under his desk. He’s left his cane or walking stick behind him, too. It rests at an angle on one of the trellis rungs. The sandals and the stick are poignant. As I continue to look at them, I have a keen sense of ordinary life and ordinary death. Everything that is alive will die. Our things often outlive us. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Expectation can prevent us from seeing what’s right in front of us. Our assumptions color what’s really there. Novelist and neuroscience scholar Siri Hustvedt is known for standing in front of a painting for hours at a time and discovering elements that others don’t see. 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. In today’s Story, Siri allows you to experience what it feels like to step inside a masterpiece and discover its hidden mysteries without prejudgments or expectations. One way of understanding Siri’s story is that it’s about attention. More specifically, it’s about what can happen when we allow our attention – allow ourselves – to become immersed into one thing and what can be revealed when that happens. But before we can immerse our attention, we first need to gather it up. So let’s do that. Asking yourself the question where in the body feels most steady right now? For me, it’s my breath. It’s gravity and its rhythm. Where is it for you? The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your eyes open. Your senses open. Meeting the world. HUSTVEDT: I don’t know what will happen to me once I’m in front of the painting, but I know that if I let go of my expectations, if I open myself to the experience of looking closely, I may be surprised by what I discover. We are all creatures of habit, and most of the time we see what we expect to see. Our expectations are pre-judgments, after all, and sometimes they distort what is right in front of our eyes. As I walk toward the building on East 70th Street that houses the Frick Collection, I tell myself to slow down. I tell myself that once I’m inside, I can take my time with the picture. I don’t need to rush. I tell myself the art is there just to be seen. All I have to do is look. I have a single canvas in mind: St. Francis in Ecstasy. Giovanni Bellini painted it late in the fifteenth century. I know it’s famous, but I’ve neglected it. I’ve never read anything about it. All the better. I haven’t been told what to think or feel. I take several deep breaths, pull open the tall, solid door, and step inside. I hear the clamor of conversations, see people milling in the hall, and worry that the museum is too crowded, but once I secure my ticket, walk down the hard marble floors of the hallway I turn right, and I feel my shoes sink into the carpet. It’s quieter here. People are speaking in low voices. The dark wood-paneled walls and the three tall draped windows on either side of the room that let in diffused light. It’s grand but comforting. I hear a man and a woman quietly speaking Italian to each other. I hear the word bellissima. GUNATILLAKE: It’s ok to take a moment to enjoy this lovely room. Feel the carpet, appreciate the quiet and the soft light. HUSTVEDT: I make my way toward the Bellini in the center of the wall to my left, I notice several people gazing up at the painting, which I guess is about four feet tall and four and a half feet wide. I find a spot to stand. I watch two older women pause to look at it for eight or nine seconds and then move on past me. A man is standing close to the canvas, his collar up, his thinning brown hair almost the same color as his jacket. I station myself to the right of him. I see the rather small figure of Saint Francis in the foreground. I see the tiny donkey behind him in a meadow, his ears pricked up, as if he is listening. But I let myself feel the colors of the big, peculiar landscape first: the many shades of green in delicate foliage, curling vines, and grass; the deep and medium browns and ochres of branches and slender tree trunks and fallen leaves and the saint’s cassock; and the many shades of cool pale turquoise in the steep rock cliff. The whitening blue-green makes me catch my breath. I take in the strong hit of cerulean blue sky at the top of the picture and the white clouds that interrupt the color as they float above a walled city. I think to myself: This isn’t one place; it’s three places: the rocky mountain zone of the saint, the green meadow of the donkey, and the remote city on high. GUNATILLAKE: The head, the heart, and your contact to the earth. Can you be aware of these three places all at once? HUSTVEDT: I take out my notebook and begin to write. I hear two people speaking French as they pass behind me. The jutting stone face of the mountain rises above Francis and dwarfs him. As I focus on his body, I straighten up, inhale, and expand my chest. I realize I’m imitating the saint’s posture and smile to myself. His hands are extended to either side of him in a gesture of reception, his upper body radiant in soft light. He looks awed but calm. There’s nothing wild or frightening about this man’s ecstasy. I’m afraid to stick my nose right up to the canvas. Instead, I lean forward, hoping I look inquisitive, not aggressive. I want to see his right hand. I think I can make out a tiny red spot. Stigmata. He has the wounds of Christ. One slender bare foot sticks out from under his robe. The man in front of me leaves just as my discoveries are mounting. I spy a little rabbit looking out from a crevice in the wall to the left of Francis. I’m stupidly proud of finding the rabbit. I discover a heron not far from the donkey perched at the edge of the cliff that becomes the meadow. I make out another little bird far to my left. Saint Francis and the animals. I remember stories. Birds came to listen to his sermons. He once tamed a vicious wolf. Didn’t hundreds of larks swoop down from the sky as the saint was dying? I study the rock formations, and I seem to see hands, paws, hooves, and claws. I wonder if the painter intended to make this allusion. A plant with nine small blooming flowers grows just behind Francis. I draw it quickly and then draw the wooden trellis to the right of the plant, the jug that stands in front of it, and the inclined desk behind it, on which rests a skull with no jawbone and a book. As I draw, I feel as if I am touching each thing, tracing its outlines with my hand. I look up and think to myself that the Bible is the color of dried blood. Then I spot the monk’s sandals lying under his desk. He’s left his cane or walking stick behind him, too. It rests at an angle on one of the trellis rungs. The sandals and the stick are poignant. As I continue to look at them, I have a keen sense of ordinary life and ordinary death. Everything that is alive will die. Our things often outlive us. GUNATILLAKE: Imagine you were captured in a painting, just as you are right now, wherever that might be. What story would that painting tell? HUSTVEDT: A guard approaches me. “You can sit if you like, ma’am.” He nods at a tall plush green chair decorated with pom-pom fringe right in front of me. His kind voice has jolted me out of the painting, and I realize I haven’t heard or seen anyone for some time. I thank him and sit down. It feels good to sit and lean back in the chair. I’m no longer facing the painting, and I let my eyes move across the room. The voices of the other visitors are suddenly audible again. GUNATILLAKE: Widen out your sense of hearing. Apart from my and Siri's words, what else can you hear? HUSTVEDT: It’s as if I’ve been away. Before I walk out of the room, I check my phone. I’ve been in front of the painting for two hours. It doesn’t seem possible. I’m not thinking in sentences. I’m between worlds. I know that it takes a while to withdraw from a painting. I walk into the hallway and hear the percussive clicks of footsteps on the bare floor. Instead of heading to the coat check, I turn left and walk into the enclosed garden. Late afternoon sunlight comes through the opaque glass ceiling above me. I seat myself on a stone bench adjacent to the room I have just left and listen to the rush of water from the fountain. My eyes land on one of two black frogs that shoot thin arcs of water from their mouths. I crane my neck and look through the window behind me. I want to catch a last look of Bellini’s painting. I see it from a distance now. I feel a small pinch of grief. Grief for what? Am I sad to go? Have I suddenly remembered the brutal politics of here and now? Or is it time, the time represented by the skull? Saint Francis will stand there fixed in wonder as long as the painting lasts. I push myself off the bench and retrieve my coat. As soon as I open the door, the wind blows into my face. I hear a car horn, the squeal of a truck stopping, and I make my way toward the Q train. GUNATILLAKE: When Siri looked back at the painting as she prepared to leave, she felt a pinch of grief. But that was her. How do you feel? Can you sense into what emotion there is a pinch of right now? What name would you give it? One of the most important things I’ve learnt through meditation is that how we see things, changes what we see. When we look at the world with relaxed, sustained attention, then our experience is different to when our attention is more scattered and loose. So let’s turn inside, and bring our attention to the canvas of physical, felt experience. What is painted here? Dropping just for now the need to get caught up in thinking or planning. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. And really anchoring your attention in the canvas of the body. No need to grant distractions any power. Rest your attention with the body and allow whatever to appear. What’s most obvious? Is there a sensation or area of sensation which stands out the most? The central character of your experience in this moment. Be it an area of tension, tingling, warmth or whatever, gently keeping it in your awareness, can you step closer and uncover more detail? Now, letting go of this area, what else is here to be seen? While the strongest sensations might call for our attention the loudest, what can you discover in the background? Let your attention roam around your body – to your hands, your face, your heart. Even to your eyes themselves. There is a universe of detail to be seen when we turn to it. What little details can you notice? What delight? Now rest back and let your attention fill the body as a whole. Switching your awareness to be with the whole canvas of experience rather than caught up in one detail. Notice how different this feels. How united. Siri spoke to us of how Saint Francis felt moved, his whole body open and in a gesture of reception. Full of awe but also of calm. Wherever you are right now, whatever position your body is in – moving, still, upright or otherwise – can it too be in a gesture of reception? A posture of grace, receiving whatever is here to be received. The simple sanctity of paying attention.
identity
Listen
To truly see what is right in front us requires the practice of looking, of careful and sustained attention — without expectation or judgment. Join author and essayist Siri Hustvedt on an hours-long trip to the museum spent in front of just one painting. And discover more than just what’s on the canvas.
SUBSCRIBE
SUBSCRIBE
To truly see what is right in front us requires the practice of looking, of careful and sustained attention — without expectation or judgment. Join author and essayist Siri Hustvedt on an hours-long trip to the museum spent in front of just one painting. And discover more than just what’s on the canvas.
ACCEPTANCE
Learning to see what is in front of me
siri hustvedt
SIGN UP
Episode Transcript
PATIENCE
Sign up for news about Meditative Story from Thrive and WaitWhat
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
SUBSCRIBE
About Siri Hustvedt
Siri Hustvedt
– ROHAN GUNATILLAKE
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
About Siri Hustvedt
Episode Transcript
Novelist and neuroscience scholar Siri Hustvedt is known for standing in front of a painting for hours at a time and discovering elements that others don't see. Why? Because expectation can prevent us from seeing what’s right in front of us. Our assumptions color what’s really there. In the still, cold quiet of a museum hall, Siri sits. And looks. And sits. And looks. And welcomes the scene in front of her, as it is.
PATIENCE
SIRI'S MEDITATIVE STORY
One of the most important things I've learnt through meditation is that how we see things, changes what we see. When we look at the world with relaxed, sustained attention, then our experience is different to when our attention is more scattered and loose. So let’s turn inside, and bring our attention to the canvas of physical, felt experience. What is painted here?
SIRI's MEDITATIVE STORY
Identity
Siri hustvedt
Learning to see what is in front of me
Listen
ACCEPTANCE
Novelist and neuroscience scholar Siri Hustvedt is known for standing in front of a painting for hours at a time and discovering elements that others don't see. Why? Because expectation can prevent us from seeing what’s right in front of us. Our assumptions color what’s really there. In the still, cold quiet of a museum hall, Siri sits. And looks. And sits. And looks. And welcomes the scene in front of her, as it is.
Siri Hustvedt is a novelist and essayist. She is the author of a book of poetry, seven novels, two books of essays, and several works of non-fiction. Two her novels, "What I Loved" and "The Summer Without Men," were international bestsellers. Her work has been translated into over thirty languages. Her most recent book is "Memories of the Future."
Every Meditative Story ends in a closing meditation from our host, Rohan
From the closing meditation
SUSAN DAVID: This series of love letters between my teacher and me go back and forth. When I say “love letters” I mean letters that are human-to-human, full of heart and compassion. Letters that help me process. Help me understand. Help me to just reflect and find the words for this experience that, for so long, has felt like a complete fog. It’s a simple act, most profound acts are, but it’s a quiet revolution for me. It’s a revolution for me to process what is happening. To actually figure out how to be kind with my emotions. To see my emotions for what they are. To stand in my truth. To not lie to myself. This is my father’s lesson. ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Some people think that the aim of meditation is to train yourself to the point that the messiness of life never arises and instead it’s just bliss and calm 24/7. But I’ve always believed that the purpose of meditation is to help us feel everything, the highs and the lows, feel them fully and with heart. Moved by life, but not shaken by it. And with those thoughts, I’m excited in today’s Meditative Story that we’ll hear from Susan David. Susan is a psychologist, author, and TED speaker. The story she’ll share with us is all about courage in its various forms, all about turning to your fear and seeing it, and navigating a path through, which leads to freedom. 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. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind open. Meeting the world. DAVID: At around six years old, I start having this acute terror of death. Developmentally, it’s normal. It’s a time when most children become aware of mortality, of the fact that everyone dies at some point. But one of my earliest memories surrounding this fear is this ritual at bedtime with my parents. Every night after we’ve had our hot chocolate together my parents follow me to my room. I walk across the familiar worn, green carpet, notice the photographs of my family on the wall, and climb into my twin bed. It feels comfortable, clean and fresh. “Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad,” I say to them individually. They kiss me goodnight and go off to their room. And then I am in the dark. There is a flicker of light from outside that shines onto my bedroom wall. The shards of light illuminate the family photographs from time to time. In the distance I can hear the echoes of my parents' voices. That’s when it happens. I am overtaken by this sudden fear that one of them is going to die. And in my six-year-old imagination, this distorts into: one of them might be dead right now. So I call out to them again, “Night, mom. Night, dad.” “ok, Sue,” they both call back. “Goodnight.” Five minutes later, I am calling out to them again. Really, it’s the child looking for reassurance, as children do, but in this case, it’s the reassurance they are both still alive. Like, I need to know they’re alive. This fear morphs and develops as I learn to express myself. I get up often, in the middle of the night, to go lie down in their bed. I’m too scared to sleep. I tuck myself close to them and I whisper into the dark, “Promise me you’re not going to die. Promise me that when I grow up you’re going to be around.” I lay there in silence and then go to speak again, “Promise me all these things.” The easy way out for my parents, for any parent, would be to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” The easy way out for them would be to build a false narrative, to say things like “I’m not gonna die” or “Everything is ok.” Instead, I hear my father say back to me, “We all die. I’m not some superhuman person who’s not going to die, nor is Mommy. We all die.” Now, he says this in a kind and gentle way. He treats me with incredible compassion, but also with respect. It’s as if my friend's parents are lying to them. But my father, he refuses to lie to me. What my father demonstrates to me in those long, dark, and terrifying nights is that it's normal to be scared. It's normal to experience difficult emotions. My father has this firm commitment to the truth, to the opposite of denial. I spend my formative years in Apartheid South Africa. A white South African growing up in a society that's effectively committed to not seeing the other. Committed to denial. Building a narrative that hinges on denial is unsustainable. It doesn’t match the reality of human experience, where life’s most frail moments and its most sturdy moments, interwoven, are its beauty. We know that one day those we love will grow ill and eventually die. This galvanizes us to take life’s offers preciously, while at the same time, holding space for this truth: we won’t be here forever. I start to experience the fact that I have this knowledge, that my Dad is going to die one day. I am going to die one day. Being scared is normal. My father teaches me that courage is not about being fearless. It’s about being able to show up to your fear and move forward anyway. I am 15 years old when my father is diagnosed with terminal cancer. I am one of three children; my sister is seventeen, my brother is eleven. After his diagnosis my father struggles a great deal with the idea of leaving my mother, the love of his life, and his three children behind. The pain and drugs cloud his mind. GUNATILLAKE: Stories of illness, of death and dying, can be difficult to hear. Take some time to check in with yourself, pause the episode even, if that's what you need. And if you'd like to, bring to mind someone whose memory Susan's story has reminded you of. Being gentle with yourself as you do. DAVID: My father has a brother who is religious. This cancer brings about a new form of seeking for my father, another step towards finding a religious identity for himself. Between conversations with his brother, which punctuate failed treatments for the cancer and terrified confusion, the idea is planted that he will be fine if he just stays positive and has enough faith. This idea takes root. Once it does, a story builds in my father’s mind: Being positive and having faith means God will give him what he needs. God will heal him. The opposite is true too then, his thinking goes: If he is not being healed, it's because he doesn’t have enough faith in God. And his death then, is his fault. A woman comes to visit my father at our house six weeks before he dies. It is a Sunday. Usually on Sundays music plays throughout the house. We dance, sing, and eat. But on this Sunday, my father is dying and the music has stopped. His visitor, like my uncle, is very religious. She is dressed in a long plaid skirt. She sits across my father in a chair. He lies propped up in bed. His skin has the parlor of death, and yet his hair is still fiercely dark and curly and his face holds his gentle dark chocolate eyes. He and his visitor talk for a while and when she leaves, sobbing breaks the silence. I see my father bent over, literally sobbing. He tells us that this woman said he is dying because he doesn’t have faith. He believes her. My father in his desperate confusion somehow gets it into his head that his life insurance policy is a symbol that he doesn’t have enough faith in God healing him. If he believes God’s going to heal him, then why does he need an insurance policy? My father has been paying into this policy his entire life, but now with a diagnosis of terminal cancer, he lets it lapse. It ultimately means that when he dies our family has nothing. Sometimes people ask me: Aren’t you angry at him? But I never think of it like that. There is a vulnerability that we all have to confront when we are suffering. And in that vulnerability is where we often seek false positivity or denial. One of the gifts my father gave me was that he really saw me completely. I think in turn, that gave me the ability to really see him. My father dies on Friday. He is 42 years old. My mom tells me to say goodbye to him. I walk into the room. His eyes are closed but I can still sense he is there. Present. Even with his eyes closed, I would always feel seen by my father. Always. I think to myself, “He knows I am still here. I know he is still here.” I say goodbye to him and I go off to school. At around 4 minutes past 2:00 pm, I turn to my girlfriend and say, “My father just died.” And just like that, I know he is gone. I go back to school on Monday. I walk into the brick building and head towards the second level to my classroom. As I move down the corridor everything appears like it is in slow motion around me, as if in a film. I enter my classroom and am greeted with a wall of silence. Every Monday there is a vibrant chatter: "What did you do on the weekend?” “I did this and that with my parents.” No one talks about the weekend to avoid using the word “parent”, “mother”, or “father.” They don’t want to upset me. I have this feeling inside of me which says, “you just need to get on with it.” The months to follow are just a blur. It’s like going from math to history to science to biology. May. June. July. August. September. November. I go through the motions. People ask how I am doing. “I’m ok,” I tell them. Because isn’t that what you say? Isn’t that what people expect of you? It’s almost like I’ve become this master of being “ok.” People admire that because, oh, you’re being so strong. They perpetuate it. They feed into it. And I say it back, “I am so strong for being ok.” But in truth, my family and I are struggling. Financial difficulties come at us from every angle and creditors are knocking. My mother is grieving. But there’s this one teacher, Mrs. F., who knows what is actually going on. She too lost a parent at a young age. She knows the pain beneath the veneer of strength. One day when I go to class Mrs. F. hands out these notebooks. The notebooks are unremarkable. The pen I use to write in them is unremarkable. Similar to how any single letter itself is unremarkable. And yet, this notebook will go on to hold so much pain and hope for me. With her kind, distinct blue eyes, she looks my way and says to the class, “Write.” It’s an invitation to keep journals. “Write. Tell the truth. Write like no one is reading.” “Tell the truth.” This frees me up. It is the first experience since my father’s death where someone has actually invited me to show up to my grief and my pain and regret. I go home and sit down to journal. I start to write little bits of poetry. Notes. Thoughts. Raw feelings. I hand the journal in to Mrs. F. the next day. She writes back to me. And so, I start this secret, silent correspondence with my English teacher where every day I write about the heartbreak I am experiencing. And my teacher writes back to me in pencil. Never pen. She never writes in pen. It’s like she doesn’t want to mark the journal in any way. It is my work. In her light pencil, she writes back, as if to say, “I’m giving you this response but I’m not defining you. I’m not defining your experience.” This series of love letters between my teacher and me go back and forth. When I say “love letters” I mean letters that are human-to-human, full of heart and compassion. Letters that help me process. Help me understand. Help me to just reflect and find the words for this experience that, for so long, has felt like a complete fog. It’s a simple act, most profound acts are, but it’s a quiet revolution for me. It’s a revolution for me to process what is happening. To actually figure out how to be kind with my emotions. To see my emotions for what they are. To stand in my truth. To not lie to myself. This is my father’s lesson. Here, in light pencil, my teacher holds space for me and my emotions. All of them. That’s it. She’s just holding space. It isn’t hinged on feeling better, doing better, setting goals, or getting over things. She’s just holding space for me. There’s this beautiful, powerful word we have in South Africa. It’s “Sawubona”, an everyday Zulu greeting. Yet, “Sawubona” literally translated means, “I see you. And by seeing you, I bring you into being.” I’ve come to think of that word Sawubona as a symbol for how we create space for one another, and how we create space for ourselves. My father gave me a Sawubona when he held me through those long dark nights, reminding me that we would all die, that it was normal to be scared. He saw my fear. And in seeing it, he helped me to understand that courage is not the absence of fear but, rather, compassionately sitting with fear. He saw me. And I think that’s what Mrs. F. gives me when she hands back the notebook with the questions in light pencil. She hands me a Sawubona. A lifeline that says, “I see you.” GUNATILLAKE: I wonder if there’s anyone in your life right now to whom you can give this real gift, that of being seen? Take a moment to choose someone, the first person that comes to mind will do. And holding them in your mind offer them these words: I see you. DAVID: My son Noah was born some twenty years after this journal exchange with my teacher. I have a clear memory of one specific day shortly after his birth. I take Noah to the doctor. He wears a soft little jump suit and is wrapped up in a teeny little blanket. He is born with these bushy eyebrows and black hair similar to my fathers. He is smiling, gurgling, and happy. I hand him over to the doctor
