(Soft music)

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?

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.

(soft music)

The body relaxed.

The body breathing.

Your senses open.

Your mind open, meeting the world.

(soft music)

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, nonstop cooking.

For my mother, food was life and life was food.

If you are eating, it meant you're 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, 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 love the most.

Walnuts and honey.

That's how we'd end each meal, drunk on Greek honey.

From your own childhood, is there a dish or type of food that particularly evokes good memories for you?

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?

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 are other assorted dishes there, too. Spanakopita, hummus, eggplant, those were always around.

They could change regularly, but you never really saw it.

They were just always there.

So I ran 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 like 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 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 going to a 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 just by her confidence in my learning English, but by her confidence in 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 Certificate 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 Certificate 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 the confidence she had in me.

It was the sense that even if I didn't get in, that that would be OK, too.

She didn't get wrapped up in any particular outcome.

We'd just be onto 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 did not recline at all.

I'd never flown before, but it was fine because who knows, maybe Cambridge required extra-rigid posture to keep our minds properly attuned.

From the airport, we went straight to London. Of course it was pouring rain.

From there, we took the train to go 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.

Can you picture the scene?

A young Arianna seeing through

the grayness 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.

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 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.

(soft music)

I'm walking around just like the real students are.

In the same buildings.

Nothing bad is happening.

Nobody's reacting.

If I got in, this is what I'd be doing.

Maybe it really is possible.

How does the idea of an in-person visualization

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 visualization 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 part of.

It was overwhelming.

The sort of place that could take over your life.

Then we took the train 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 seem like something that would be normal

for Cambridge students.

Maybe there's 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 is 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.

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 practicing,

there were 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 feel 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.

(upbeat music)

What matters most is the adventure itself.

(upbeat music)

Meditative Story is a WaitWhat Original,

in partnership with Thrive Global.

The show is produced at the studio

inside SYPartners in New York.

Our executive producers are Devon Triff, June Cohen,

Arianna Huffington, and Dan Katz.

Our producer is Sabrina Farhi.

Our supervising producer is Jai Punjabi.

Our curator is Cary Goldstein.

Original music and sound design,

is by the Holiday Brothers.

Mixing and mastering by Brian Pugh.

Special thanks to Ann Sachs, Juliana Stone,

Summer Matteis, Monica Lee, Madison Oldenburg,

Lindsay Benoit Connell, Libby duke,

Smithy Sinha, and Sarah Sandman.

And I'm Rohan Gunatillake,

creator of the Buddhify meditation app

and your host.

Visit meditativestory.com to find the transcript

for this episode.

(Rousing music)

One weekend my parents take me to the Bronx Zoo.

As we stroll through the exhibits,

I find myself standing beside a large cage with an eagle

almost my size perched inside.

I stare, fascinated, struck by its piercing eyes,

gigantic feet and claws,

and enormous brown and white feathers.

My father reads the sign to me.

"This is a Steller's sea eagle."

This is not a fierce, mindless creature.

We are simply and innocently seeing eye to eye,

recognizing the each in each other.

With an expertise in ecology,

Carl Safina has written extensively

about the living world over the years

and has won a whole host of awards and recognition,

but more importantly, his work has brought the majesty

and mystery of nature to countless people of all ages.

In today's "Meditative Story",

Carl draws on his decades of studying

and living with animals and touches on the question

that has fascinated him from a young age.

"How different are they from us? Really?"

In this series, we blend immersive first-person stories

with mindfulness prompts

to give you a deep sense of wellbeing

at any time of the day.

From WaitWhat and Thrive Global, This is "Meditative Story".

(relaxing music)

I'm Rohan and I'll be your guide.

(relaxing music fades)

The body relaxed,

the body breathing,

(relaxing music)

your senses open,

your mind open,

meeting the world.

(relaxing music continues)

We live in a tenement flat in Brooklyn.

It's a three-story walkup,

a modest building fronted with brown tarred shingles

like you only see on roofs nowadays.

The building has five apartments.

My family and relatives occupy three of them.

We frequently call back and forth to one another.

Our voices ring through the hallways,

doors are left open,

and I'm welcome to walk in and out

of any aunts' and uncles' apartments.

When most people think of Brooklyn,

they probably don't think of wildlife,

but all you have to do is lean out of your window

and look up.

(playful music)

There are flocks of pigeons

turning in gyres over the rooftops.

(playful music continues)

My father raised pigeons as a teenager.

It was a common hobby in New York.

Like many boys my age,

I emulate my father and I beg him for pigeons of my own.

"You're only seven years old," he tells me,

but I am persistent.

My father helps me fix up

a dilapidated toolshed in our backyard.

Our yard is small but not tiny.

I unroll tar paper. My father nails shingles.

We replace rotted wood,

make an outdoor screened enclosure with a big door,

and cut a hole in the wall

so the pigeons can go back and forth.

We put up perches.

We install a water canister and make a wooden food trough.

My father promises me

that we'll go get our first pigeons tomorrow.

In my excitement, I invite two friends over

to see the new coop.

When we get there, to my delight,

I find two handsome homing pigeons,

a male and a female already sitting in the enclosure.

I burst with excitement.

This surprise is my father's doing.

(uplifting music)

The young male is an all-over charcoal gray.

The female has a white splash on her head

and pure white wing tips.

(light flighty music)

Two, of course, is just the beginning of the flock.

In my neighborhood in Brooklyn,

pet stores are as likely to sell pigeons

in their front window as dogs or cats.

We choose only sleek homing pigeons.

He shows me how to hold them:

in one hand with their head facing me,

two fingers around the wingtips,

thumb up, and two fingers on either side of both feet.

Pigeons are compact, sturdy.

We must be firm and sure and gentle.

We want only young ones,

who will quickly consider our coop, their coop,

our flock, their flock.

Our flock grows.

Four, six, a dozen.

They are my responsibility.

I feed them and maintain the coop.

(inspiring music)

In winter, I haul down steaming water,

the vapors rising upwards as I pour the hot water

over their canister to melt the ice into drinking water.

Every morning I open the screen coop

and the pigeons stream out.

(inspiring music crescendos)

Their wings clapping rapidly.

They fly steeply upwards

and over the surrounding apartment buildings,

peppering life into the Brooklyn sky.

When they've had their exercise,

they flutter onto the lowest of the surrounding roofs.

(inspiring music continues)

I shake a coffee can with their food.

The sound of dried seeds and peas

and corn pinging off the tin walls of the can

calls the flock back to the coop in an instant.

I pour the seeds into their trough and they eat briskly.

We're friends.

Occasionally, a bird from another flock

attaches to our birds,

and I can't help but think it must be unhappy

with its own flock and perhaps just lonely enough

to fly with birds who are strangers to a strange coop.

I love spending time in the coop,

smelling their feathers, watching them eat,

listening to their murmurs and coos.

The coop is arranged for breeding.

Against the inner walls,

we stack wooden fruit crates three-high on their side,

their open top facing out.

In each, we put a bowl.

In a corner, a pile of tobacco stems,

the perfect nesting material.

Day by day, week by week,

I watch as they court and choose who they'll mate with.

Sometimes they fight over mates,

sometimes they jostle and compete

for who'll get an apartment.

They arrange the tobacco stems into nests.

I watch them produce miraculous eggs.

They sit faithfully.

I watch the changing of the guard when a mate takes over

and the pigeon who'd been incubating

goes for a sip of water.

I observe how the rhythm of their days

involves parents who leave for a while, come back,

have their supper and feed their babies,

and go to sleep for the night.

It's natural and obvious that right across the yard

we live in our own stack of boxes.

Grownups have decided who they're going to mate with.

Sometimes they too fight about mates

or compete for an apartment.

Parents leave for the day and return at night,

have supper, feed their kids and go to sleep.

The pigeons take care of their young ones and so do we.

We both try to avoid pain and be comfortable.

The similarities are obvious.

One weekend my parents take me to the Bronx Zoo.

(gentle enveloping music)

As we stroll through the exhibits,

I find myself standing beside a large cage

with an eagle almost my size, perched inside.

(fantastical music)

I stare, fascinated, struck by its piercing eyes,

gigantic feet and claws

and enormous brown and white feathers.

My father reads the sign to me.

"This is a Steller's sea eagle."

I notice a small branch lying on the ground.

I pick it up and poke it through the bars of the cage.

The eagle bites the tip of the branch

with its huge yellow bill.

I tug,

the eagle tugs back.

I tug again.

We're playing.

I know this intuitively.

This is not a fierce, mindless creature.

This is a being who understands what's happening

and is pleased to have a bit of boredom relieved.

Our minds are meeting in the sharing of our little game.

We are simply and innocently seeing eye to eye,

recognizing the each in each other.

We understand what we're doing together.

Exactly what this eagle is thinking about,

precisely how life feels to it, I don't know.

But I also don't know that about my father,

or what my neighbors think,

what their family means to them,

what concerns them,

what they yearn for or dream at night.

To me, they too remain as mysterious as the eagle,

and the eagle, no less mysterious as them.

(fantastical music crescendo)

Let's sense into that mystery.

Whatever is happening in your experience right now,

notice how alive it feels.

Sensations in the body, thoughts, feelings in the mind,

even if they are unclear.

As real as this feels,

do we know for sure if anyone, if anything,

has the same kind of experience?

(enveloping music)

(enveloping music continues)

Years after the eagle

and years after I have to move away from my pigeons,

I begin university.

Sitting in my lectures,

I am stunned to learn that anthropomorphizing,

attributing human qualities to animals,

isn't just discouraged, it's forbidden.

The thoughts and emotions of animals cannot be known,

I'm told, and they must be assumed

to be completely different from those of people,

(playful music)

and yet the great organizing principle of biology

is that all life is related, literally,

in a deep organic history, evolution,

we are all family.

I study the neurotransmitting chemicals in human brains,

and the brains of other animals.

I'm not surprised that other animals

act in ways that make sense to me,

that they act fearful in the presence of danger,

aggressive when defense is called for,

or affectionate with mates, because, well, so do I.

You can see a brain,

but you can't see a mind,

yet you can see the workings of a mind

in the logical way in which animals behave.

As I tell you this story,

my office manager's dog has jumped into my lap.

I've never given a treat to this dog.

I've never fed her or contributed to her survival

in any way.

This dog does not know me

as the provider of anything material,

and yet this whole time she's been next to me,

trying to get up on my lap

to be right where she is right now.

Why does she do that?

She's not here to get a treat.

She's here because she simply wants to be close.

(gentle music)

There are various reasons

for why we become attracted to someone,

what causes us to fall in love,

why we gravitate to certain individuals.

There's chemistry involved as well.

Sometimes we just don't understand exactly why

we're drawn to people,

but we know we want to be near them.

(gentle music crescendos)

How does what Carl just said make you feel?

Do you recognize it?

Do you agree

or is there some struggle here?

Be aware of how you're resonating to what Carl is sharing.

(enveloping music)

(enveloping music continues)

When my wife and I first meet,

we are strongly drawn to one another.

More than anything, I just love to be with her.

I just want to be around her.

I phone her or she phones me, and we meet on our bicycles

and bike through the neighborhood.

We go down to the docks on the bayshore nearby.

We look at the gulls.

We look for the fish hawks called ospreys.

We look in the water for crabs on the pilings,

maybe walk to a nearby pond to watch the ducks.

I've been to a lot of wild places in my life,

far-flung exotic places

from Antarctica to the African Savannah,

but I just love these little bike rides to the bay with her,

looking for what we can see.

This is our thing.

Shared interests and values give us something to talk about,

but what we're really doing is forming an emotional bond.

People say, "I don't know what my dog is thinking."

Well, I also don't know what my wife is thinking.

I don't know if she's thinking about

what we're going to have for dinner,

or if she's thinking about how much she loves me,

despite I hope, the stupid thing I said this morning,

but I know she's thinking about something.

As a human, she might choose to tell me what she thinks,

how she feels, or she can choose to lie about it.

Animals often show us what they're thinking

or how they are feeling.

Our dogs let us know if they want to go out

or want us to take them for a car ride,

or just want to lie alongside next to us.

It doesn't have to be in words

for us to understand the truth of it.

(playful music)

These things are completely intentional

because the bonds are deep and strong.

We have skills for maintaining bonds

and seeking each other and maintaining that proximity.

These behaviors have been saved in the evolution

of all this diversity because they are important

in the conduct of lives.

We've differentiated to varying degrees,

but we've saved so many of these deep commonalities.

I think we all want not to feel alone in the world.

We want to feel like we have some company,

that we have the safety and simple comfort

of another presence who cares.

(enveloping music)

If you are listening to this

and there are people around you,

notice what their presence feels like.

If you're listening to this and there's no one,

then notice what that feels like.

Whatever your situation, name how you feel,

connected, lonely,

confident.

(enveloping music)

(enveloping music continues)

It's the summer of 2010.

It's a horrible summer.

The Deepwater Horizon well gushes oil

into the Gulf of Mexico.

I've been contracted to write a book about the disaster,

and I travel repeatedly back and forth

between my home on Long Island and the Gulf.

The people I talk to there are shell-shocked.

They are fishermen and residents,

everyday people whose identities and incomes

are fully entangled with the Gulf;

the two cannot be separated.

Many are convinced that they will never get this place

or their lives back.

I feel an overwhelming survivor's guilt.

I cannot help but think these people's lives are shattered.

They're stranded in a catastrophe,

yet I can just go home.

In this same summer, a weak emaciated baby raccoon

falls from the tree where her den is

at the edge of our yard.

Her mother's been killed by a car.

We bottle-feed her and nurse her back to health.

Raccoons are not particularly beloved animals.

Most people see them as scavengers,

but like the pigeons of my childhood,

raccoons as this little one quickly affirms,

are fellow beings in search of safety and security,

sustenance and play.

It's early August when I arrive home

from one of many trips to the Gulf.

My wife is already in bed and the raccoon

is right there sleeping beside her.

We have this rule of no animals on the furniture or in bed,

but tonight I just shrug it off.

I am so happy to be home and out of that nightmare

in the Gulf that I say to myself,

"What's the big deal? It's fine,"

as I slide into bed with the raccoon between us.

I lie there beside them, the bedroom windows open,

listening to the song of the cicadas.

(uplifting music)

It is August, high summer,

the most languid time of the year.

Everything feels so beautiful and peaceful

compared to where I've just come from.

I don't want to fall asleep.

I want to prolong this moment, soak it all in.

My mind drifts.

I think about how my work brings me face-to-face

with this seesawing duality

between our broken relationship with the living world,

the destruction of nature, polluted seas,

the extinction crisis, the climate crisis,

and the so miraculous and sacred living world

that strives to survive.

(uplifting music continues)

I am compelled to address the problems,

but as I lie here tonight,

I'm inspired to savor the remaining beauties.

At this moment, the raccoon who is down between us,

just below our knees, creeps up alongside me,

lays across my throat and falls back to sleep.

She could choose to sleep anywhere,

yet she decides to be as close to me as possible,

feeling comfortable and safe.

The moon is full and light floods our bedroom

as I lay there quietly, fur in my face,

I gently elbow my wife.

She opens one eye to see the little raccoon

across my neck and says softly, "That's pure love."

(gentle music)

Other animals have a love that is genuine,

and at this moment, that's what she's showing me

as she stays nestled across my throat.

Pure love is not her state all the time,

neither is it our state all the time.

Sometimes she is playful.

Sometimes she just wants to eat.

Sometimes she's fearful or figuring out a way

to challenge us or thwart our will.

But right now, as the cicadas sing outside

and moonlight streams through the window,

she is showing a real true and genuine thing.

Pure love.

Love may not be all we need,

but this much is true,

by every indication,

love is something shared not just by humans,

but by many kinds of animals throughout the world.

We, all of us, need to love and be loved,

to hold someone close.

Yes, I think to myself that's exactly what this is.

Pure love.

(gentle music softens)

Thank you, Carl.

In just a moment,

I'll guide you through a closing meditation.

Out of all the rich wisdom that Carl's story offers us,

there are three themes I want to explore together

for our remaining few minutes.

The first is the idea of the animal body.

The raccoon nestled against Carl's neck, the dog on his lap.

This animal body we all share, sense into it now.

Be aware of your body as a whole,

whether it's moving or relatively still.

A body breathing,

this process shared by all mammals,

this breath shared by all mammals,

shared by pretty much all life.

Breathe.

Breathe with everything.

Now moving to feelings,

thoughts, moods, emotions,

the stuff of our minds which can be reduced

to a dance of neurotransmitters.

That same dance seen in the brains of animals.

Watch your thoughts as they come and go.

And if there is space here in the mind, watch that too.

So, the experience you're having right now

is often understood as neural activity,

firing and connecting.

Does it feel like that in any way?

Notice really closely.

Listen really closely.

And the third and final theme I want to draw

from Carl's story is that of the importance of bonds,

the need to love and be loved, to hold something close.

If it feels safe, and you are okay doing so,

putting one in the other, hold your own hand.

Hold it close.

Notice how it feels.

One part of your animal body joining another,

creating feelings, igniting neurotransmitters,

a physical bond between you and you.

Relax your awareness into that bond,

that connection, and enjoy it if you can.

And let your hand in your hand be an expression of love.

One hand wanting to be close to another,

and the other here to receive it.

A circuit complete.

A circuit which exists in all beings,

beings near, far, small, and large.

The universal wish for being close to another.

The universal wish to be the one another is close to.

This need for love we animals all share,

(gentle music)

and a need all us animals can provide.

Thank you.

(bright music)

"Meditative Story" is a WaitWhat original

in partnership with Thrive Global.

The show is produced at the studio

inside SYPartners in New York.

Our executive producers are Deron Triff,

June Cohen, Arianna Huffington, and Dan Katz.

Our producer is Timothy Lou Ly.

Our supervising producer is Jai Punjabi.

Our curator is Cary Goldstein.

Original music and sound design

is by the Holiday Brothers,

mixing and mastering by Brian Pugh.

Special thanks to Anne Sax, Julia Stone, Samer Muhtaseb,

Monica Lee, Lindsey Benoit O'Connell,

Libby Duke, Smriti Sinha,

Stephanie Gonzalez and Sarah Sandman.

And I'm Rohan Gunatillake,

creator of the Buddhify meditation app, and your host.

(gentle music)

Visit meditativestory.com

to find the transcript for this episode.

(bright music fades)

Staying active during an after cancer treatment may not always feel easy or even possible, but finding small ways to keep moving can support your recovery and long-term health.
 

Some of the benefits of physical activity may include better response to treatments, a lower risk of cancer coming back, prevention of other illnesses such as heart disease or diabetes, improve mental and physical health.
 

Gentle movements such as walking, gentle running, or dancing, all count. How much you move will vary depending on how you feel, your symptoms and where you are in your cancer journey. But in general, you should try to do some type of physical activity every day and avoid long periods of not moving.
 

Over time, aim to gradually work up to about 30 minutes of movement most days. As always, talk to your care team before you start a new movement plan.
 

Discuss any activity limits or precautions you should take based on your specific diagnosis and treatment plan.
 

Ask if they can refer you to a cancer specific fitness program. It's a good idea to start slowly, listen to your body and rest as needed, stopping if you feel dizzy or unsteady.
 

Once you've received a green light from your care team, you can try these Microsteps to get started.
 

Take a five minute walk around your home or yard each day. Even short, gentle activity helps reduce fatigue and keeps your body moving. Stretch your arms overhead and march in place for two minutes when you're watching television. Light warmups improve flexibility and prepare muscles for movement.
 

Set your phone alarm to stand up and move once an hour during the day. Avoiding long periods of sitting helps your circulation and energy. Do 10 chairs sit to stands once a day using the arm rest if needed. Simple strength exercises maintain muscle and bone health.
 

Keep a filled water bottle nearby and drink before and after any exercise. Staying hydrated supports your body's recovery and prevents dizziness.

When you're going through cancer treatment, it may help to think of food as fuel.

Eating well can help you manage your strength, manage side effects, and support your body's recovery.

It's important to speak with your care team about nutrition and diet recommendations at a right for you.

Adequate protein, for instance, supports muscle health and energy. Healthy fats like avocados, walnuts, and olive oil may help reduce inflammation in the body.

Drinking plenty of water is also important during cancer treatment because treatment side effects may leave you dehydrated. You also may need to eat more soft foods and add mild flavored homemade or non-spicy sauces and gravies if you have trouble chewing and swallowing.

One challenge when you're living with cancer is that you may not always feel like eating. Treatments can interfere with your senses of smell and taste, and side effects may make food less appetizing.

Here's some Microsteps to support healthy eating during cancer. Try eating small snacks throughout the day instead of three large meals. If you've lost your appetite or are experiencing side effects, smaller portions are often easier to tolerate. Include one protein rich food in at least one meal each day, such as yogurt, eggs, beans, chicken, tofu, or nut butter.

Protein supports your muscles and provides the building blocks your body needs to promote healing. Keep a water bottle within reach and sit from it regularly throughout the day.

Staying hydrated supports your body during treatment, prevents dehydration, and helps reduce fatigue. If you're feeling nauseous, brew a warm cup of ginger or peppermint tea, suck on a slice of lemon or eat ginger juice.

These simple remedies may help calm your stomach. Stock up on soft and throat soothing foods like applesauce, yogurt, gravies, homemade and mild flavored sauces, sugar-free gum, and ice chips.

These choices stimulate saliva, ease swallowing, soothe soreness, and help you get needed calories.

- What do plants and relationships have in common?

They both need nurturing to grow. And tending to your relationship garden might be simpler than you think.

Our relationships with friends and family can have a big impact on our wellbeing, and casual relationships, like your morning chat with a local barista or that friendly banter when you drop off your dry cleaning matter too. These connections are known as weak ties, and they have been shown to have benefits for our happiness and sense of belonging.

This week, focus on strengthening the connections in your life by trying one of these Microsteps.

Mark time on your calendar for a five-minute daily check-in with someone you care about.

Small, regular moments of connection help build stronger, more resilient relationships over time.

Put your phone away during meals or meaningful conversations. Reducing digital distractions signals that the person you're with truly matters. Do one small act of kindness this week, like picking up a neighbor's mail or lending a hand to a coworker, or simply being friendly to someone new.

These everyday gestures build a sense of purpose and strengthen the give-and-take that keeps relationships thriving.

Practice gratitude by thanking service workers or sending a thank you note or text to a friend.

Expressing appreciation boosts emotional wellbeing for both you and the recipient. Join a book club or exercise group.

Take a cooking class or volunteer at a charitable organization you support. Shared purpose and regular interaction create natural opportunities for deeper relationships.

Schedule a coffee with someone outside of your usual circle this week. Ask them questions about their childhood, their work, or how they spend their time.

Expanding our social world builds empathy, reduces bias, and enhances social capital.

- My name is Benga Ogedegbe.

I'm a Professor of Medicine and Population Health at NYU Grossman School of Medicine.

I'm also the Director of the Institute for Excellence in Health Equity at NYU Langone Health.

When we don't get enough sleep, there can be consequences beyond just feeling tired or groggy.

Sleep disruptions can actually make it harder for the brain to do important work.

So how do you set yourself and your brain up for a good night's sleep? Start with these Microsteps.

Keep your bedroom dark. Artificial light in the evening can inhibit the secretion of melatonin, an important hormone that regulates our sleep. Wear an eye mask.

Studies have shown that simply covering the eye at night can improve sleep quality.

Use a sound machine to create a sense of calm, consistent soft background noise when you're falling asleep can help drown out disruptive sounds.

Finally, keep your bedroom cool. The National Sleep Foundation recommends a bedroom temperature between 60 and 67 degrees Fahrenheit or about 16 to 19 degrees Celsius.

As always, consult with your care team for personal health advice, and please remember prioritizing quality sleep is essential for a healthy brain.