Deep Dive
Shownotes Transcript
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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows. From New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more, The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.
To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns, and this time we're hearing stories about tough truths, admitting hard things, and then finding the courage to say them out loud, especially when it feels a little dangerous. That was the case with our first storyteller, David Litt.
He shared his story at the College Street Music Hall in New Haven, Connecticut, where he partnered with Premier Concerts. Here's David Litt, live at the Moth. Back when I was a speechwriter for President Obama, thank you, that's my story. Back when I was a speechwriter for President Obama, the ultimate White House power move was to stand up after you finished a meeting with the President, swipe an apple from the bowl on the Oval Office coffee table,
And then on your way out the door, take a big, juicy bite. And I never did that. I never even came close to doing that. It wasn't the writing part of my job that worried me, but you know how some people are afraid of spiders and some people are afraid of heights? When I started at the White House, I discovered that my very specific, very crippling fear was of being in an enclosed space with an important person and having to say things.
which turns out to be a problem when you work for the President of the United States. This was an especially big problem in March 2013. I had just gone from writing speeches for the senior staff to writing speeches exclusively for the President, and I was 100% sure that I deserved this promotion, except for a very large part of me that wasn't. And so my boss, Cody, it's my first Oval Office meeting in my new job, my boss saunters into the Oval, I kind of tiptoe behind him,
And President Obama's sitting behind his desk, and he's holding a page of jokes I've written for this thing called the Gridiron Dinner, which is this, like, dinner for grouchy print journalists in D.C. But the president has to tell some jokes, and I've written some jokes, and he's holding them up, and he looks at us and he says, So, are we funny? And Cody, my boss, very generously turns to me and says, Well, it's pretty funny. And President Obama looks a tiny bit confused, but then he looks at me and he says, Yeah. Yeah.
Lips is pretty funny. Now here I need to make something very clear to you all. My name is not Lips. It's David Litt, L-I-T-T, which is what I should have told the president at the time. Because when you work in the White House, I mean, yes, you want to make history, you want to do something no one in America has ever done before, but you also want to be the kind of person who can tell the leader of the free world a hard truth. And my name...
is an easy truth. But standing there in the Oval Office, all I think to myself is, "Okay, I guess I'm lips now." And we go through the rest of the meeting and I don't correct the president and I do not take an Oval Office apple when I leave. But on my way back to my office, I begin to think to myself, you know, sometimes the difference between being a coward and seizing an opportunity is really just a matter of perspective.
Let me explain what I mean. First of all, this was a moment every White House staffer dreams of their entire careers. The President of the United States had just referred to me by name. And technically it wasn't my name. But I don't want to get caught up in those details. And besides, this is the chance at the alter ego I so desperately need right now. Because, you know, me, David Litt, is scared. Litt is timid. But Lipps...
Lips is bold. Lips is daring. Lips doesn't give a fuck. So that's how I decide to write the rest of my speech. I'm just, I'm gonna be lips.
And it turns out suddenly everything is really easy. The jokes just all flow together. At the end of the speech, President Obama wants to say something sincerely nice about reporters. So I say, I write a line, "Reporters have risked everything to bring us stories from countries like Syria and Kenya." And I choose Syria because it's an incredibly dangerous place. And I choose Kenya because I kind of like how it sounds next to Syria.
And for a moment I think to myself, "Should I run that line by like an expert in foreign policy?" But then I hear this voice, and it's in my head and it sounds like my voice, only braver. And the voice says, "Dude, come on. Are you really gonna overthink everything? Like, Syria ends in a 'ya' sound, Kenya ends in a 'ya' sound, you're the presidential speechwriter, it's gonna sound great, go get 'em, buddy."
And so that's what I do, I listen to Lips. And a few nights later, I go and I watch President Obama deliver this speech, and Lips was totally right. The jokes just flow one to the other. At the end of the speech, President Obama thanks reporters for bringing us stories from places like Syria and Kenya. He gets this big round of grateful applause. I go back to the office the next Monday, and I'm just, I mean, I'm over the moon. Like, I'm saying things like, "Well, it's all in the delivery."
Which is speechwriter code for, "Well, I'm amazing." And I'm just floating on this self-important cloud. And then I get a call from Terry. And Terry's a senior speechwriter. He's one of the nicest guys I've ever met. He's also one of the best askers of leading questions I have ever known. Like if Terry asks you, "How's your car?" It's been stolen. And what Terry wants to know is, "Have you seen the headline of The Daily Nation, Kenya's largest newspaper?" And I say, "No."
And then I say, "What?" And then I Google it. And the headline reads, "Kenya not safe for foreign journalists, says Obama." And things escalate very quickly. I mean, within minutes, it seems like people are writing stories about the stories. The foreign minister of Kenya, on behalf of his entire country, condemns the president's remarks, and he calls on the United States of America to apologize.
And I'm sitting in my office thinking, "Maybe I could just apologize." And that's how I learned that having the power to start an international incident does not give you the power to stop one. The whole day, this story is just getting bigger and bigger. And finally, by that afternoon, a senior White House official speaking on background has to issue a quote on behalf of, you know, we the people, saying that the president misspoke, and I quote, "Obviously, the situations in Syria and Kenya are very different."
which is senior white official code for "Obviously David is an idiot." So I spend the next few weeks trying to figure out whether angering a nation of 44 million people is a fireable offense. It turns out the answer is not exactly. I don't get fired, but I stop getting assigned any big speeches.
And then finally, at the end of April, there's a big speech they have to assign me. It's the White House Correspondents' Dinner. That's the big night of presidential joke-telling each year. And at that time in my White House career, I'm like our token funny person. And so, I have to take the speech. And from the very beginning, I decide I am not letting lips anywhere near this one. I am doing this my way. And my way means I am overthinking everything.
I mean every comma in every word. I obsess over every sentence, every period. We have the jokes and then we have these funny Photoshop slides. We did three slides where we took President Obama's head and we Photoshopped Michelle Obama's new hairdo, which at the time was these eyebrow-length bangs. We Photoshopped them so it's like President Obama and Biden playing golf, but Obama has bangs. Or
President Obama taking a stroll around the White House, but he's got bangs. Or President Obama and Bibi Netanyahu, the Prime Minister of Israel, but he's got bangs. And I drive our graphics team crazy. I'm like, can you move the bangs down a millimeter? Can you move them up a millimeter? Actually, can you move them down a millimeter? I work so hard and I sleep so little that when I look back on those three weeks, I actually barely remember any of it. It was like a coma, only more productive.
But finally, it's the Friday before the speech, the speech is on a Saturday, and I look at the draft and I think, "This is actually really good. My way works." And then I get a call from Terry, the senior speechwriter. And Terry has a question. Terry asks me, "So I'm looking at the slides, the ones with the president and the first lady's hairdo. Is the joke that he looks like Hitler?" So I say, "No." And then I say, "What?" And then I look at the slides.
And honestly, in the first slide, it's fine. Like with that haircut, President Obama looks like Moe from The Three Stooges. And in the second slide, he looks like Moe from The Three Stooges. But in the third slide, he looks like Hitler from Hitler. And you're just going to have to trust me here because I know that President Obama does not look like Hitler on television, and I can promise he does not look like Hitler in real life. But in that picture, at that angle, in that light, with that haircut, even without the mustache, the resemblance is uncanny.
And he's standing in the picture next to Bibi Netanyahu, the Prime Minister of Israel. And I can tell that Lips would just leave it in. But I decide I have caused my last international incident and I am done listening to Lips. So I thank Terry profusely for saving me. And then I cut the picture from our draft.
Now the next day, it's the day of the speech, we have one last Oval Office run through. Cody, my boss, is out of town, so we bring back two former speechwriters, one named John Favreau and one named John Lovett, and they saunter into the Oval Office, and I kind of tiptoe behind them. And almost immediately, I mean, I kind of get into a corner of the couch, and they're just bantering back and forth with the president and trying to make him laugh, and they're both winning. I'm just sitting there trying not to be noticed.
In fact, I'm trying so hard not to be noticed that as we're running through these jokes, I almost don't notice when President Obama stops us. And he says, "Well hang on guys, what happened to that picture of me and Bebe? I like that one." And John Favreau says, "Well, Mr. President, we had to cut it." And the President says, "Oh, why?" And suddenly there's just total silence.
Because in all of American history, no one has ever compared the president to Hitler to the president. And none of us wants to be the first. I mean, the seconds are ticking and each one is taking longer and longer. And I'm starting to panic because our only hope is that somebody is going to tell the leader of the free world a very hard truth. But I don't know who that's going to be because who could possibly be that bold?
I mean, who could possibly be that daring? Is there anyone in this room who truly just doesn't give a fuck? And in that moment, I hear a voice. And it sounds like my voice, only stupider. And the voice says, Sorry, Mr. President. We couldn't use that slide because you kind of looked like Hitler in it. And then my out-of-body experience comes to a crashing halt.
And I have never been so scared in my life. I have no idea what the president is about to do next. And what he does next, President Obama starts to laugh. I don't just mean that he laughs, I mean like he really laughs. He kicks his feet up off the floor, he's hugging his knees to his chest, he's rolled back in the couch cushions. He laughs harder than I have ever seen him laugh before. I actually think that for a moment he laughed so hard he forgot who the president was.
And I wish I could say that everything changed right then and there. Actually, when the laughter died down, we all went back to what we were doing. I'm sitting in the couch just trying not to be noticed. But I realize as we go through the rest of this speech, the rest of that meeting, that something has changed. For the first time, I'm not afraid anymore. And when we stand up to leave, I still don't even think about swiping an Oval Office apple. But on my way out the door, President Obama stops me
And he looks me in the eye and he says, "Thanks, Lit." Thank you. That was David Lit. David wrote speeches for Obama from 2011 to 2016. His first book, "Thanks, Obama," was a New York Times bestseller. I asked David if he ever heard from President Obama after his book was published.
He told us that the president actually mailed him a copy of his own book, which was titled Thanks, Obama. And on the title page, it was signed, Dear David, You're Welcome, Barack Obama. David's most recent book is called Democracy in One Book or Less, and it's full of mothworthy stories. Coming up, a young girl in England defies her family, and a woman in Birmingham, Alabama has a life-changing experience at Walmart.
That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.
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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. In this show, we're talking about finding the courage to speak up for yourself and others. Now we're going to hear two stories from our Open Mic Story Slam competitions. First up, Namesha Ladva, live at the Philadelphia Grand Slam. I grew up in England, and some of my earliest memories are of living in a draft Victorian house with my family and the family of my dad's older brother.
and Ba, my diabetic, dessert-demanding grandmother. When the moms cooked food for all 11 of us, they made a special menu for Ba because of her condition, and they also made a special menu for my uncle because he liked his things his way. At mealtimes, Ba and her sons ate first, and sometimes they were joined by the oldest and most golden grandson.
then after they were done, the moms and the rest of us kids would eat. There were also other rules. For example, my mother as the wife of the second ranking son was expected to cover her face with her sari and be silent whenever Ba or my uncle were in the room. I remember one day when I was about five years old and Ba just starts screaming from upstairs. Hello, Papa!
which means, "God, there is fog in my room. Get it out." So we run upstairs like crazy people because when ba screams, that's what you do. And there's no fog. It is a bright, sunny day. The diabetes has made ba blind.
It's a few months after Bar goes blind, and because I'm five and my next cousin is six, we think it might be sort of interesting if we were to sneak into Bar's room to see if she could tell we were there. So we do. We creep in, and of course Bar knows, and she says, which is, who's there? Speak! Well, we're five and six, we're cool, we don't speak.
We just wait until Ba falls back asleep. Then we have another great idea from the mind of a five and six year old. We decide that it would be kind of like cool if we pinched Ba. I actually don't know if my cousin followed through on it or not, but I did. I pinched my blind grandmother. I reach out and I turn hard and she screams,
We run out, the rest of the family is charging up the stairs. They are led by my uncle, whose most important job in the world is to honor and protect his mother. My cousin and I were like, run back in the room like, what's upsetting ba so much? And she's screaming. Which roughly translates as, small girls are parasites.
They don't do housework and only know how to suck my blood. I am so busted. So I look over at my mom to kind of gauge how busted I am and she does not look upset. So I give her a very small, very secret smile.
But that is when my uncle's hand slaps me so hard across the head that I fall backwards. His hand is still raised in fury when I hear my mother's voice. It sounds like ice water. "You have no right." I just surrender to an epic meltdown. Ba speaks. "What is the use of complaining about the girl when you cannot control the mother?"
There's nothing else to say really. We continue to live in our joined family until Ba decides that her sons can live separately. And I begin to live with my nuclear family for the first time. Ba eventually dies. And then when I'm 12, my parents announce we are moving to America. So my uncle comes to wish us goodbye.
And I'm waiting there with my mom, and I'm waiting for her sari to come over her head, and she doesn't do it. My uncle gets closer, my heart starts thumping, and I tug on her sari to remind her about what she's supposed to do, and she just taps my hand away. And my uncle, as he gets right there, my parents fold themselves, they touch his feet in a gesture of respect. When they stand, he speaks first, as is his right. May God bless you and yours, take care of the children, and do not become too American.
What happens next is shocking to me. My mother speaks to my uncle for only the second time in my life, and she says, "Thank you for your blessing. We will take care of the children." My uncle simply folds himself in half and hugs me and my brother. When he stands, there are tears in his eyes, and I know, in America, I'm going to have a very different life than my mother has had.
Namesha Ladva was born in Kenya, raised in England, and now lives outside Philadelphia. She teaches at Haverford College in the writing program. Namesha writes, "I do have a very different life in America, and part of it is helping students speak up and be heard." To see a picture of five-year-old Namesha, a photo she describes as her "perp picture," go to themoth.org.
We're hearing stories about finding the courage to speak up. But here's one about what a struggle that can be in the moment. This story was the winner of our very first Alabama Story Slam at a club called Saturn in Birmingham, where we partner with public radio station WBHM. Here's Alexis Barton live at the Moth. Most love stories end with a white dress.
Mine begins with one. The white dress I wore for my high school graduation was above the knee and chic, backless, and it had a sweet little bow at the back because southern girls love bows. And when I wore it to my graduation, I had no idea that it might serve a second purpose as a wedding dress.
or more accurately, a dress to elope in. But about two and a half years later, I was a college student at UAB, and I was - go Blazers - I was dangerously in love with an upperclassman who lived two floors above me in the dorm, and we'll call him Quentin. Quentin was gorgeous. Every girl on campus wanted Quentin.
But he wanted me. The fact that Quentin already had a girlfriend, that was just a poetic obstacle that I had to overcome. And I did. Quentin and I sealed our situationship with a kiss under a streetlight in the rain. And it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me.
Now, we didn't actually go out. We sofa sat. That's what you did before Netflix and chill. And we talked about all kinds of things, and eventually the talk turned to marriage. Now, between us, we had one job.
and both of us were still on our parents' health insurance, and so this seemed like a fantastic idea. And we didn't want to burden our parents with paying for a wedding, so we thought, we'll cut class, like the scholars we were, and run down to Jefferson County and elope. And I already had the perfect dress in my closet at home, so I snuck home to Brewton, Alabama,
and grabbed my high school dress and snuck it back. Now, we chickened out. We didn't actually elope. The day came and went, and I just couldn't do it, and he couldn't either. And we were all right with that. We continued to see each other, and we were happy. And one night, when we weren't sofa-sitting, I went to Walmart with my roommate at 2 a.m. As one does, that's the perfect time to go to Walmart. It's the witching hour. Like...
going to Waffle House at the same hour. And as one does, we were wearing what most people are wearing at 2 a.m., pajamas. I had on a matching pastel kind of top and bottom with a little Peter Pan collar and white kids. And I had a ponytail and I had a hair ribbon because Southern girls love hair ribbons. And we went down to Walmart on Lakeshore. Laughter
And we were going to get some snacks. And we went all over the store and we got chips and dip and Coke and Wing Cuisine and Crystal Light. And we made our way to the frozen food aisle because we needed ice cream. And if you've been in that Walmart, you know how wide and long that aisle is. And so we are on the Blue Bell Inn because I'm a Blue Bell girl.
And we're looking at the options. And at the other end, the opposite end of the aisle, there is a couple coming toward us. And I'm severely nearsighted, so I can only really see y'all. I can't see what's happening at the back. And so we're making our way down, India, my roommate and I. And the couple at the opposite end is slowly coming toward us. And the closer they come to us, I realize it's Quentin.
and he's on a date. And the girl was cute. She had on her going out top, and if you know what I mean by that, she had on some cute jeans and some cute shoes and her hair and makeup was flawless. And I took it all in as they walked past me. And I looked in their buggy and they had couple snacks. They had chocolate covered Oreos. They had strawberries.
They had wine. They had cubed cheese and olives. And it was obvious that they were together. Mind you, he had never taken me out.
And I had single girl food in my buggy. I had Lean Cuisine and Crystal Light. And I realized then that I was a single woman and I had had no clue all along. And we kept moving. We never broke stride. We get to the end of the aisle and I ask India, "Did I see what I thought I saw?" And I was hoping she would say no, but she's not that type of person. She said, "Yeah, girl, you saw it." Everybody saw it in Walmart.
And she took me home, and this is the point where I'd like to say I gathered my dignity, but I didn't. I called another friend to pick me up, and we shot out for his house, because it was his turn to face uncomfortable truth at an inconvenient time in front of an audience, his neighbors, and I let him have it.
And I realized in the moment how afraid he was of me when I popped out of the shadows and I realized, you know, girl, this is over. And so I left. This story has a happy ending. Two happy endings because Quentin married that girl and they have a beautiful family. And I live to tell this story here tonight. So we both won.
And if there are any lessons from this, and there are three that I have, it's taken me several years to come to, it is nothing good happens after 2 a.m., just like your mother said. Never double-cross a rider because you will become material. And three, always wear your cute outfit when you go out because you never know who you're going to see in Walmart. Thank you.
That was Alexis Barton. Alexis is a writer and journalist. Her work has appeared in Glamour, The Daily Beast, and on Shondaland.com. To her knowledge, Quinton is still happily married. As for her, she no longer wears sleepwear in public and generally shops at Target now, where she's so far not run into any exes. I relate to this story because I grew up near Birmingham. The accidental Walmart encounter is a very real thing.
If I'm not feeling like I'm looking my best, I wait in the car and make my poor Yankee husband shop alone because I don't want to risk running into the ladies from church when I'm looking disheveled. Coming up, a young Sharon Salzberg resists the call to help bring meditation from India to the U.S. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the public radio exchange PRX.org. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns, and we're hearing stories about finding the courage to speak up. Our last storyteller is world-renowned meditation instructor Sharon Salzberg.
I met Sharon a few years ago when I signed up for her beginner meditation class. When Sharon entered the room, she exuded a deep wisdom, yes, but she also seemed approachable and human. She told story after story and made us laugh. At the last class, I shyly approached her and asked if she might want to tell one of her stories on a moth stage. Happily, she said yes. Here's Sharon Salzberg live at the moth. So it was almost 45 years ago.
that I found myself walking up four flights of stairs in Calcutta, India. I was going to see one of my most beloved meditation teachers, a woman named Deepa Ma. Deepa Ma is like a nickname for Deepa's mother. I had spent some amazing time in India under her guidance and the guidance of others. I'd formed a tremendous group of friends. I was happy. I was learning. I was discovering. And so I decided...
that I was going to go home to America briefly and do the kinds of things I needed to do so that I could go back to India and spend the entire rest of my life there, happy. So I was telling her my plan. When she looked at me and she said, well, when you go back to America, you're going to stay there and you're going to start teaching meditation. And I said, no, I'm not. And she said, yes, you are. And I said, no, I'm not. And she said, yes, you are. And I said, no, I'm not. I mean, the thought was ludicrous to me. I didn't feel at all capable.
I thought I would fail at it. It was beyond my comprehension. I'd only been practicing meditation for about three years. I was 21 years old. And I just couldn't even imagine that I was qualified to do a thing like that. And she just kept looking at me sorrowfully like, "Yes, you will." So my path to Calcutta did not begin in Buffalo, New York, but it took some strong turnings in Buffalo, New York. I grew up in New York City, in Washington Heights.
and I went to college at the State University of New York at Buffalo. In my sophomore year, there was a philosophy requirement, and I decided to take an Asian philosophy course. And honestly, as far as I can tell, a lot of that was happenstance. I looked at the schedule. I thought, oh, that's convenient. That's on Tuesday. I'll do that one. And it completely changed my life in two ways. One was, first of all, here was the Buddha saying right out loud, there's suffering in life.
This is a part of everyone's life. Not to the same degree or the same style, the same type, but everybody lives in a world of insecurity, of not knowing, of going up and going down and not getting what we want sometimes. All of that. And I, like many people, had a family system growing up with a lot of chaos, a lot of confusion, a lot of loss.
of a lot of difficulty, and like many people, this was a world where nothing was ever spoken about. And so this strange kind of ambient silence surrounded everything, and I didn't know what to do with all those feelings inside of me, and I felt so different. I felt so alone. Here was the Buddha saying, "You're not alone. This is not weird. You're not weird. This is a natural part of life. Life has not abandoned you in the fact that you've been hurting." So that was enormously liberating for me.
And then in the course, I heard that there was such a thing as meditation. That there were methods, there were techniques, there were tools you could actually use that could change how you lived. You could be happier. You could be more at peace. And I just conceived this enormous, mysterious, passionate desire to learn how to meditate. So I looked around Buffalo. Remember, this is a long time ago. This was before there was a yoga center in every corner.
This was before mindfulness was a thing. This was before you could Google mindfulness and get all these articles. This was before you could Google anything, right? Then I heard that the university had an independent study program. And if you created a project that they liked, you could go anywhere in the world, theoretically for a year, and then come back and do your final year. So I created a project. I said, I want to go to India and study meditation. And I went off in 1970 in the fall.
with my student loans and my scholarships looking for a meditation teacher. And I didn't really know where to go to begin with, but I thought I'd heard that the Dalai Lama lived in this little town in the Himalayas called Dharamsala. And I figured, well, he probably knows how to meditate. So, you know, I'll go there. That's where I'll start. And there was a meditation class there, in fact. But you know those situations where things are just not working? This didn't work.
I went to the class and there was a reputedly extraordinary teacher, but the translator was out of town. He'd gone to the dentist who was at the other end of India. So, okay, they said, come back in two weeks. I said, okay, I'll come back in two weeks. So I went back in two weeks and the teacher was out of town for something or other. So I came back, you know, and it was just like that over and over again. Once they were both out of town, I don't know where they went. Um...
But the yearning, the desire did not abate in me. And it was in the next place that I heard about an intensive 10-day meditation retreat that was about to happen in a town called Bodh Gaya, which is a town in northern India. It's like a little village that has grown up around the descendant of the tree they say the Buddha was sitting under when he became enlightened.
And this course was described in a way that was exactly what I was looking for. Nothing very philosophical. It was not abstract. It did not involve a belief system. It did not involve belonging to something or rejecting anything else. It was kind of like the straight stuff, like how-to. So I went there. And in fact, it was an amazing experience. And it was very difficult for me at first. I remember the very first instruction in meditation we received was...
"Sit down and feel your breath. Just sit and feel your breath." And I thought, "That's stupid." You know, like, where's the magical, esoteric, fantastic technique that I came to India for? You know, I could have stayed in Buffalo to feel my breath. And then I thought, "Well, how hard can this be? This will be like nothing." And I would speculate, what will it be, like 800 breaths or 900 breaths before my mind starts to wander? And to my absolute shock, it was like one breath.
And I would be way, way, way gone. Lost in the past, lost in the future. And then would come that moment, like, oh, the breath. And what I didn't realize at the time was that, in a way, the heart essence of that instruction is the return. It's learning how to let go. It's learning how to come back. It's learning how to start again. It's learning how to be resilient. But I had no concept of that. And yet, there was something there for me, I could tell. There was some powerful truth there.
in that place, in those presentations for me, in that practice. So I stayed, and I stayed, and I kept practicing, and over time, I learned much more about mindfulness, the ability to be aware of all of one's experience in a more balanced and open way. I learned about techniques of loving kindness and compassion, where we learn, actually cultivate the power of kindness, not just toward others, but toward ourselves as well.
I did sneak back to Buffalo at one point and did what I needed to do to finish school, which was largely paperwork, and then I went back to India. So that brought me to Deepa Ma's room some years later where I was thinking, "Okay, this is it. This is what my life is going to look like." And I just kept saying, "No, I can't do that. I'm not capable. I don't have it. I don't have the ability to do that, to teach." And then she looked at me and she said two amazing things. The first was, she said, "You really understand suffering. That's why you should teach."
My childhood had been really rough. It was really hard. My father and mother got divorced when I was four. My father disappeared. My mother died when I was nine. I was living with my father's parents at that point. When I was 11, he came back. It was the first time I'd seen him since I was four, and he was like a different person, really ravaged by mental illness and alcoholism. He was there for like six weeks and took an overdose of sleeping pills and disappeared.
didn't die, but he never left the kind of mental health system again. And I went to college when I was 16. And I calculated once that by the time I'd gotten to college, I'd lived in five different family configurations, each of which had ended through some kind of death or trauma or something. And this kind of suffering was what I felt I needed to heal from, what I needed to get over, what I needed to get beyond. And here was Deepamma kind of saying to me, go toward it.
There's something of value here, not only for you but for others. So that was kind of stunning in that moment. And then she said to me, "You can do anything you want to do. It's your thinking you can't do that's going to stop you." I left her little room and I walked down those four flights of stairs thinking, "I can't do that. I'm not doing that." And then I went off to Boulder, Colorado to visit a friend I had made in India, Joseph Goldstein, who was just starting to teach meditation. And while I was with Joseph in Boulder, we received an invitation
to teach a one-month-long retreat. So I thought, "Okay, I'll stay and do that, then I'll go back to India." The nature of our retreats, the format of our retreats is that we practice with people during the day. There's one formal lecture every night. And even though my mind had opened to trying, keeping Jipa Ma's words in my heart,
I was still incredibly scared. And I was scared not only of looking stupid and being a failure and not being up to it, but I was incredibly scared of public speaking. So Joseph, for 30 nights, had to give a talk. And I would sit literally cowering in the back. And what I was most afraid of was that I'd be in front of a group of people, and I'd be in the middle of my talk, and my mind would go completely blank. And I would just sit there, silent, as everyone waited for me to say anything. You know, I was like...
And I realized that Joseph and I had missed certain elements of the women's movement when we'd been in India because these people kept going up to Joseph and yelling at him, "Why won't you let her speak? Why won't you let her have a voice?" And he would say, "I'd love to have a night off. You know, go talk to her." But I just couldn't do it. I was so scared. And then some of this was like months later because these invitations kept happening. And I kept thinking, "I'll go back to India a little later. I'll go a little later."
as we kept accepting the invitations, and I couldn't speak. And then I remember that in the context of the loving-kindness practice, there was a guided meditation. It was sort of a formal meditation. You could lead people through, and I thought, that's it. If my mind goes blank, I'll just go into the guided meditation, and maybe no one will notice that there was that awful gap there for a moment.
So then I could begin speaking about loving kindness, and that opened some doors. And then one day I remembered very deeply Deepamal's words, and I realized, you know what? We are gathered here together not for anyone to experience my expertise in something or my brilliance. We're gathered here because we all suffer, that we can find one another in that vulnerability and in that tenderness, and together we can go forward toward success.
reshaping our minds and making a different world to the best of our ability. That they're all in a way, all talks, all presentations, all gatherings are about loving kindness. They're about connection. They're about our ability to come together. I remember not too long ago, I was invited to teach in Tucson. He was teaching in Tucson. And the organizers decided they wanted the Dalai Lama to teach in the morning.
and in the afternoon. And then the evenings they wanted Western people to teach. So I was the first night. And it was kind of scary. And at that point there were about 1400 people in the room. At that point that was the largest group I'd ever spoken to. He wasn't there, thank goodness, but his throne was like right behind me and I could like feel it. And it was over and I was so happy that it was the first night at that point because then I could just go on and enjoy the rest of the conference.
And then maybe two days later, he was speaking. And the way he would do it would be he'd read a passage from a text. Then he'd give a commentary on it. And as that was being translated, he would go forward into the text. But this particular day, something in the translation caught his attention. And he said, oh, that's not what I said. And the translator said, yes, it is. And he said, no, it's not. And the translator said, yes, it is.
So the Dalai Lama flipped back to see the passage that was in dispute, and he said, "Oh, I made a mistake." And I thought, "Look at that. If I'd made a mistake in front of those same 1,400 people a few nights before, would I have disclosed it? I don't know about that." And then the Dalai Lama finished by bursting into the deepest laugh possible. Thank you. Sharon Salzberg is a meditation pioneer and New York Times bestselling author.
Her relatable approach has inspired generations of instructors. Sharon is co-founder of the Insight Meditation Society in Barrie, Massachusetts, and the author of 11 books, including the New York Times bestseller, Real Happiness, her seminal work, Loving Kindness, and Real Change, Mindfulness to Heal Ourselves and the World. Sharon and I recently spoke about some of the ideas in her story. A lot of times I meet somebody and I'm introduced as a meditation teacher, and
And they respond by saying, oh, I tried that once. I failed at it. And we don't believe you could ever fail at it. And most commonly, people think that because they have this idea that they're supposed to stop their thoughts or have a perfectly blank mind or keep anxiety from ever arising or something like that. And really, when we talk about meditation, we mean relationship. It's a way of relating differently to our thoughts, to our feelings, to our physical sensations, not blanking them out.
And so it's a relationship that has a lot to do with spaciousness.
and openness. And so a lot of that is encapsulated in that moment of beginning again, rather than feeling you failed because you wandered off to the past or to the future, or you've fallen asleep. It's realizing this is the moment where we have the chance to be really different. Instead of judging ourselves and being so down on ourselves, we can practice letting go. What one of my meditation teachers once called exercising the letting go muscle,
And we can begin again. And that is why meditation is sometimes considered a practice of resilience. Because we're actually training ourselves to be able to begin again and not lose heart and to be able to go forward in a wholehearted way. That was Sharon Salzberg. We at The Moth wish you all strength and resilience during challenging times. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time for The Moth Radio Hour.
Your host this hour was the Moss artistic director, Catherine Burns, who also directed the stories in the show with additional Grand Slam coaching by Meg Bowles. The rest of the Moss directorial staff includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Janess, and Jennifer Hickson. Production support from Emily Couch.
Moth Stories are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Andrew Bird, Keith Jarrett, Blue Dot Sessions, and the Silk Road Ensemble with Bill Frizzell. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth is produced for radio by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.
This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.