Jimmy invokes all of his warmth and channels my dad to remind me how in these critical moments sometimes a slight shift in That little bit of is all I need. And what I learned from this gratitude exercise is that I had become so zeroed in on my quest for motherhood. I had lost sight of how otherwise rich and multi-dimensional my life is. Maya Shankar is a cognitive scientist and host of the podcast A Slight Change of Plans, selected as the best show of the year by Apple in 2021.
As a girl, she struggles with taking things too seriously, herself, the sufferings of others, and the hypothetical misfortunes she imagines for the future. She turns to her father for perspective, and he takes her on a memorable walk, one that helps her understand her place in the universe. Spoiler alert, it's not at the center of it. when her adult life brings a new and unexpected kind of sorrow.
She turns to these lessons from her father again to find a balance between the seriousness that comes with loving life and the wise perspective of knowing we're all just passing through. In this series we combine immersive first-person breathtaking music may see our lives back to us in other in our own inner lives. From Whitewater. story. The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open. Your mind. Meeting the world. The apartment in Chennai, India is simple
but full of warmth. My husband Jimmy and I tour the small prayer room with our hosts, friends of our family. It showcases glinting metal bowls and statues and paintings of hindu gods and goddesses shades of pink. We settle into the sitting room, the heart of the house. I'm so excited to be showing my relatives off to Jimmy. Last Thanksgiving we visited his ancestral homeland, China. And this year... It's my turn.
My aunt and uncle chuckle with their playful banter as our hosts serve us snacks. Chai served in stainless steel cups and an assortment of dried fruits, nuts, and fried snacks. The room reminds me of my grandmother's old house with notes of clove and cardamom filling the air. Jimmy and my uncle sit under white fluorescent lights on one side of the room. They're comparing notes on the nature of consciousness. Jimmy from a scientific perspective and my uncle as a Hindu spiritualist.
It delights me to see Jimmy at ease with my family. They say opposites attract, but Jimmy and I have minds that are wired so similarly. We reason through problems the same way and have similar reactions to things. Our greatest point of division lies in our philosophies around existence. And now that the conversation has turned to consciousness, I chime in and try to explain this difference to my uncle and aunt as our friends bring out more plates of food.
Jimmy is in awe of the fact we humans have consciousness at all, I say. And when he recognizes just how small the chances were that his consciousness came into existence he is overwhelmed with gratitude. Jimmy is just so happy to be here, feeling and thinking things. And the prospect of losing that terrifies him. If he could transfer his consciousness into a machine to ensure that he could continue to feel and think indefinitely. Jimmy would do it in a heartbeat.
My aunt and uncle look at me with amusement, but for me I continue, my attitude towards existence is completely different. We all inevitably encounter suffering in our lives, and I find this fact distressing. If you were to tell me that you could reverse the clock and never bring me into existence, I think I would be completely fine with that. Non-existence does not scare me. suffering does. I shrug. Jimmy has always thought I'm a bit odd for having this view.
He cannot wrap his mind around the fact that anyone would have such a cavalier attitude towards whether or not they exist. It especially surprises Jimmy to hear this view coming from me, given my positive nature. But now I see my aunt nodding vigorously. Aha, she says, smiling at me. You are a UTTL. A what? It's what I am, my aunt explains. And your uncle, too. We're both. UTTLs, unwilling travelers through life. I burst out laughing. travelers through life, it is perfect. I feel this delight.
I've never heard my aunt use this term before, but I immediately know what she means. And so does Jimmy. Our eyes meet and I can tell what he's thinking. So this is where you get it from. I'm deeply troubled by human suffering. This is why I am an unwilling traveler through life. As a little kid I'm torn up seeing the impoverished children my own age during my visits to India.
I watch my grandparents suffer as they age. And I feel it myself when I'm bullied by the other kids at my suburban elementary school. If we didn't exist, Sure, there wouldn't be joy, but there also wouldn't be misery. or the ever-looming threat of future misery. I marvel that my aunt has reached this same conclusion and has coined a charming phrase that captures our philosophy. An unwilling traveler. Through life. I beam at my aunt, my uncle, and
I'm not alone on this odd desert island. It has other inhabitants. Does the idea of being a little detached to life feel wise to you? or something else. Let's take Act on the word detachment. and how it doesn't have to also mean disconnected. What might connected detach The conversation affirms my belief that if we can become a bit detached from our own existence, a little less enamored of it, life's inevitable I grew up in Cheshire, Connecticut.
Our home is a bit of a stretch financially for my family of six, all living on my dad's salary as an assistant professor of physics. One afternoon when I'm in third grade, I sit with my dad in our family room. We're surrounded by light blue wallpaper and beautiful Indian artwork my mom painted as a young girl. A Persian rug covers the floor. We sit on our crinkled leather sofa. I tell my dad about our latest assignment at school, where we have to dive deep into a topic. I've chosen DNA.
as a scientist, I imagine that he's going to love that I've chosen something sciency. So I share it with him, and then as an afterthought, I casually mention that my friend Marie's project is about savants, people with extraordinary mental gifts My dad pauses for a moment. And then remarks, savants, and how that's a fascinating topic. My nerdy competitive streak swings into full gear. I shoot back. Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you mean that's fascinating?
DNA is the most fascinating topic. My father hears my reaction and leans forward. Hey Maya, he says a bit sternly. Quick geography lesson. The world does not revolve around you. His gentle frown hangs under his black mustache. I so rarely see that frown and so it really packs a punch. He lays it out clearly for me. Let's not forget that you are one of many Maya. You should not only be okay with other people having better ideas than you, you should expect that that will be the case.
My dad feeds me this big slice of humble pie, and I take it in. He's telling me that when we step outside of our own egos, our trials and tribulations are put in context and are more resilient when things don't go our way. My dad's philosophy Growing up. centerpiece of my childhood. At age 9, I'm accepted at the Juilliard School of Music's pre-college program. And as a teenager, Itzhak Perlman invites me to be his private violin student.
At 15, I suffer an acute hand injury that ends my career overnight. By the time I get to college, I've started to accept this loss. My dad who teaches here at Yale is never far. Sophomore year, I live in a dorm on College Street. And if you keep walking up that street, you'll eventually get to Science Hill, where his office is. Sometimes we meet halfway to walk around the leafy streets of New Haven. or to have lunch at Naples, our favorite pizzeria. Extra red pepper flakes, please. Always.
This fall at school, I'm plagued by a new concern. From the time I was a little kid, I'd always dreamed of becoming a mom. I had a play kitchen set with a telephone on it, and my dad would overhear me calling my fictitious neighbors to share stories about my mischievous children. Despite my being an unwilling traveler through life, I'd somehow always managed to have an idyllic view of what my kids' lives would be like, filled with constant joy, smiles, and snuggles.
This fall, that image which had slowly been forming cracks is now fully punctured. I've been reading about a series of violent attacks against transgender and gay teenagers. Now the realization is crashing down on me that my kids could suffer terribly in this world. And my imagination starts to run wild with the countless ways they could feel pain. I'm only 18 years old. Yet here I am, consumed by an obsessive loop of painful images of my children's suffering. Children I don't even have yet.
I call my dad in despair. He drops whatever he is working on and greets me on the sidewalk. We pull our coats tight against the wind and I start to explain my worries. When I'm like this I have a pit deep in my stomach and I completely lose my appetite. I feel nauseated. My world feels under threat. Boju, he says, a pet name he's had for me since childhood. Let's head this way. We set out in silence. My dad leads me to the entrance of the Grove Street Cemetery.
We've never gone this way before. It's a cloudy, ominous day. We enter through an impressive stone archway, almost like a temple. The last of the leaves are falling from the oak trees. The air smells like damp earth. In front of us, we see the old headstones of people who led complicated lives. Like ours. Just rose. Look, Boju, my father says, sweeping his gaze around us. No matter what suffering we encounter, This will be our fate. So never let your fears grow too big. I let out a hesitancy.
Novel parenting style pops. But he's got me. Something in my mind My anxieties, my worries, They left just In bringing me to this graveyard, that one of the antidotes to suffering is not trying to prevent it altogether. Instead, perspective of the universe. are suffering. It is impermanent. All suffered. Not everyone finds comfort the universe. It takes the pressure off. Maybe the stakes aren't as high as my brain. to believe. These thoughts fill me with calm. It's just what I need.
This is work for you. infinitesimally small can be free. But it can also be a bit scary. For Maya, there is calm here. What is here? By the time Jimmy and I are married, he knows me so well. He knows of my deep desire to have children, but that the idea of their potential suffering brings me great anxiety. I'm not sure I'll have the courage to eventually become a mom. But Jimmy's love of life is infectious. He's not immobilized like I am by the idea that our children Why create another
traveler through life. Whereas he thinks, yes, we will all experience pain, but there can also be such joy in this life that it's well worth the risk. Over time, Jimmy slowly And because he understands how my mind works, together we figure out strategies to help me deal with including some of the methods my dad has taught me over the years. And so I find the courage to take the leap.
Because of medical issues, Jimmy and I make embryos and we partner with a surrogate to carry the pregnancy. The whole process takes years. But one day... We are finally peering at a blue line on a plastic stick. Our surrogate Haley is pregnant. but six weeks in the pregnancy fails For so long, motherhood has been this enormous presence in my life. First in my consuming fear of it, then in my pursuit of it, and now in my grief.
We end up trying again, and this time, at the six-week mark, we're surprised to discover that Haley is carrying identical twins. Our single embryo has split into Jimmy and I are elated. Then, just a few hours after we see the images of these perfect little beating hearts, Haley starts bleeding. I know what's going to happen, and I can hardly bear it. Evening has fallen in the Bay Area
I've snuggled under the comforter and I'm staring at our off-white wall and the few books that lay on our dresser. Jimmy stands in the doorway. Mai, he says, his nickname for me. Mai, let's list some things we're grateful for. No, I really don't want to, I say, shaking my head. The idea of gratitude feels jarring in this moment. It'll be quick, he says. Let's just name a few things we're really thankful for. I sigh. I glance over at Jimmy's reassuring smile. He looks at me encouragingly.
Okay. Number one on my list is Jimmy. And then I named some other things. My six nieces and nephews. my family and my best friends, and my morning cups of chai, which bring me comfort and warmth and have become a ritual over the past few years. A podcast I love creating so much. which allows me to emotionally connect with humans all over the world and mine wisdom from their stories.
Even my exercise routine, which has kept me sane and happy through the pandemic. Jimmy invokes all of his warmth and channels my dad to remind me how in these critical moments Sometimes a slight shift in perspective That little bit of distance is all And what I learned from this gratitude exercise I had become so zeroed in on my quest for motherhood. I had lost sight of how otherwise rich and multidimensional my life is.
Like all efforts to make ourselves feel better in the mind, This one's not perfect. But this meaningful shift in my perspective that my dad has been helping me to cultivate since childhood It brings me some It's similar to the fell walking with my day nearly two decades ago. I reflect back on those comments New Haven. in Chennai. The images are comforting. when my life feels happy help me to survive it. and bravely traveling Thank you Maya.
Your story has me reflecting on the importance of subtle shifts of perspective in my own life. There are so many elements of Maya's story that I could use as the runway for our meditation together. So I'm going to be greedy and pick three. And we'll start by lightening our footprint. Eyes open or closed. Know what it is to be light upon the earth. Nothing for us to do. I'll wait, supported by the Earth. the movements of our mind, the sensations of our bodies. Fluid. Changing.
light weight We're aware of our experience as it's blown around. thoughts sensations Like dandelion seeds on the breeze. Maya's story is also about suffering. Suffering that is real, and suffering that is imagined, and maybe a suffering that is a layering of the two. Things can be hard. There is everyday suffering and there is the suffering you wouldn't even wish on your nemesis. It's what it is to be human.
There's a universality to it. And a lightness. The knowledge that we all just stumble through somehow. Billions of people. Each the center of their own world, but not the center of the world. 8 billion dandelion seeds. Or, you know, spaciousness. It's almost dandelion season here in Glasgow, Scotland, so we've seen the first here and there on our walks. We pick them up and with our breath send them out into the air to float, to be light. Each one a wish.
In the toughest of times Jimmy points Maya to gratitude. I wish I had his wisdom. So let's take his invitation ourselves too. Let's just do it. Let's just name a few things we're really grateful for. I'll start. The long summer days. Disney Plus Good running, trainers. My wife putting up with my cooking. Okay, your turn now. As Maya says, sometimes we become so zeroed in on the thing, so it can be helpful to remember that our lives are multidimensional and full.
You too can be more Jimmy. And remember that even in the difficult times. You too can be more Maya and practice it even when we don't want to. you too can be light delicate upon the earth Meditative story is a and Rebecca Grierson. is our supervisor The series is produced by Original music and sound Signed by Ryan Holiday. Mixing and mastering Tim Cronin, Sammy Oputa, Lea Sarameva, Charlie Menezes and Adam Heiner. of the buddhify meditation Visit meditativestory.com.