0:24

As I place the dishes on the counter, I

0:27

ask her, why

0:30

are you crying, Mommy? And

0:33

she says, I'm crying

0:35

because I'm so happy.

0:39

And it feels as if a hole begins to

0:42

open in my stomach, a

0:44

pit. It

0:47

starts out the size

0:49

of a mustard seed

0:51

and grows quickly into an almond.

0:58

By the time she finishes the sentence, it's

1:03

infinite. Judith

1:15

Griselle is a behavioural neuroscientist whose

1:18

fascinating studies about endorphins and addiction

1:20

led her to make discoveries about

1:23

the neural explanation for irrational choices

1:25

around mind-altering chemicals. In

1:28

her New York Times bestseller, Never Enough, she

1:31

places her very personal experiences with

1:33

addiction into a science context and

1:36

explains why the brain and behaviour are

1:38

products of multiple influences, many

1:40

coming from outside our heads. Judith's

1:44

meditative story today is compelling and

1:46

challenging. Mostly though, it's

1:48

full of wisdom. I do hope

1:50

you get as much out of it as me. of

2:00

mindfulness practice. From

2:03

way to what, and to the thrive global, this

2:06

is meditative story. I'm

2:10

Verhan, and I'll be your guide. The

2:30

body relaxed. The

2:33

body breathing. Your

2:36

senses open. Your

2:39

mind open. Meeting

2:43

the world. We

3:08

live in a beautiful 200 year

3:10

old colonial stone house that

3:14

sits on a few sprawling acres. I

3:21

walk out the back door onto

3:23

the brick patio and

3:25

through the yard past some

3:27

shriveled old apple trees to the Willow

3:29

Grove. Alongside

3:33

the creek. The

3:35

creek is filled with crayfish, which

3:38

I love to catch. I'm

3:41

sitting in the hollow of a willow tree. A weeping

3:44

willow. The

3:47

branches hang low and they

3:50

are easy to climb. Its

3:54

leaves are pale, silvery green. I hear

3:58

them swaying in the breeze. beneath

4:01

an orchestra of birdsong. It's

4:09

late in the afternoon, kind of

4:11

sunny outside but cozy and dry here in

4:13

the hollow and

4:16

a little dark. The

4:19

hollow faces the creek to the west.

4:22

With a light coming through it feels a little

4:24

bit like being under an umbrella. The

4:28

walls of the hollow are soft like

4:30

wet sawdust, easy to

4:33

break apart. A

4:36

grown-up might only just fit inside, but

4:38

to me it is spacious. My

4:41

back is up against the inside, my

4:43

knees up by my chin. I

4:46

have plenty of room. I

4:48

feel safe here in the empty hollow. I'm

4:51

close to home but it's private. There

4:55

are a lot of expectations in my house so

4:58

I come here to escape. I

5:02

open the book in my lap to where I

5:04

last left off and

5:06

I disappear into what feels like a

5:09

whole other world. We

5:20

look like a family out of central casting. My

5:23

father is an airline pilot for Pan Am.

5:26

He flies out of Kennedy Airport, which seems

5:28

to me the height of glamour. He's

5:31

handsome, charming, funny and a

5:33

good skier. My

5:36

mother is beautiful, a nurse. She

5:39

looks like Sophia Loren, high

5:41

cheekbones, deep set brown eyes,

5:44

wavy dark hair. She's

5:47

a staunch Catholic, no sense of

5:49

humor but fundamentally decent. We

5:52

eat well, take ski trips and

5:54

summer at Long Beach Island. At

5:57

Christmas we get the bikes we want. We

5:59

have pets. in the house, a nice

6:01

dog, cats. We have

6:04

a great story about ourselves, and

6:06

we have pictures on the mantle and along

6:08

the walls that confirm the story. Family

6:11

in front of the Christmas tree pictures, photos

6:14

of us smiling at happy

6:16

events with cousins and grandparents.

6:20

There's a pressure to look nice, act

6:23

nice, be nice. We

6:26

do chores, we help

6:28

clean, we're polite. I'm

6:31

expected to behave in a certain way.

6:35

In my bedroom, I'm not allowed to hang up so

6:37

much as a picture or choose my own

6:40

bedspread or curtains. I

6:43

don't know what exactly my taste would be,

6:47

but this isn't it, and

6:49

I seek ways to escape. I

6:52

guess you could say that books are my

6:54

first drug. I'm

6:56

constantly starving for books. As

6:59

soon as I can read, I read addictively. I

7:03

am always reading. I

7:06

read wherever I am, upside down, on

7:09

a bicycle, in the classroom, in

7:11

the closet in my room, in the back of a

7:13

car. I'm constantly

7:16

starving for books. I

7:18

visit the library and take out 10 or

7:20

12 at a time, which

7:22

may last me a week. Getting

7:25

into a story, I am really able to

7:28

live there. I

7:32

read The Little House on the Prairie series. Ridiculous

7:36

stories about Ma and Pa and all

7:39

these very polite kids who live in

7:41

Kansas as settlers. It

7:44

has nothing at all to do with my experience.

7:48

But disconnecting from my own life by

7:51

getting into someone else's is

7:53

such a relief. There's

7:56

something so tidy, so

7:58

reassuring about stories, how

8:02

the children just intuitively know what to do

8:05

and are trusted to do the right thing. Let's

8:18

mirror a young Judith as she wraps

8:20

herself in stories. Imagine

8:22

how she is in this moment and

8:25

look to take on those qualities in

8:28

ourselves. Her

8:30

attention wrapped, her mind

8:32

absorbed, finding

8:34

solace and meaning in stories.

9:07

My mother spends a lot of time fretting

9:09

about food. I'm encouraged to

9:11

be in the kitchen with her and

9:13

there are a lot of rewards here in the kitchen. To

9:16

please my father, I've learned

9:18

to make apple pies out

9:21

of like 97 tiny,

9:23

wormy apples. If

9:26

my dad likes the pies, the

9:28

hours of labor are totally worthwhile.

9:31

But it's also fraught with pitfalls. Because

9:34

if a meal is late or if a

9:36

pie burns, well, the

9:40

kitchen is wide with a brick floor my

9:42

mother works hard to make shine. It's

9:45

the oldest part of the house. The

9:47

doorway was once a stove, so

9:49

you have to sort of crawl through it, crouch

9:52

down to get into the dining room. My

9:55

mother is always, it seems, at the

9:57

kitchen sink, preparing or walking.

10:00

washing dishes. We've

10:02

just finished lunch and

10:04

I bring the dishes from the table to the counter.

10:09

I'm around nine years old. Her

10:13

nose and eyes are red. Her

10:16

face is pinched, which

10:20

isn't entirely unusual.

10:23

I've seen her like this after an

10:25

argument with my father. But my

10:30

father isn't home today. My

10:34

father is impossible to

10:36

please. He's a perfectionist.

10:40

There is a right way and

10:43

a wrong way to do everything. I

10:47

can't seem to do anything right or good enough.

10:51

My father gives specific directions.

10:54

How many sheets of toilet paper to use

10:56

for each purpose? How to open

10:58

the refrigerator? No

11:00

lingering with your hand on the open

11:02

door, pondering what to eat. We

11:05

have to know exactly what we want so

11:07

we don't waste the cold. As I

11:11

place the dishes on the counter, I

11:13

ask her, why are you

11:15

crying, mommy? And she says, um,

11:19

I'm crying because I'm so happy. And

11:22

it feels as if a hole begins to

11:25

open in my stomach, a pit.

11:28

It starts out the size of a mustard

11:30

seed and grows

11:32

quickly into an almond. By

11:36

the time she finishes a sentence, it's

11:39

infinite. At

11:42

first, her reply makes absolutely no sense

11:44

to me. It's

11:46

literally incoherent. What

11:49

she says and what I see

11:51

don't match. And

11:54

then it hits me like a brick. My

11:58

mother is lying. And

12:00

suddenly I realize that our whole story is a

12:03

lie. No

12:05

more real than those stories I devour in the

12:07

hollow of the trees by the creek. But

12:11

I say nothing. Because

12:14

to acknowledge it, to

12:16

acknowledge that our narrative has no basis

12:18

in reality, would

12:21

simply undo her. Undo

12:24

both of us. That

12:28

empty incoherence I feel that day at the

12:30

sink remains with me. Soon,

12:33

I need more than

12:35

stories to fill it. My

12:38

very first drinks are with my grandfather

12:40

at his beach house. We

12:42

get up at 4 a.m. and head out into

12:45

the freezing cold bay to sit in a duck

12:47

blind. He pours some

12:49

warm brandy into the cap of a flask. I

12:52

know right away this is special. With

12:57

the warmth of the alcohol, my

12:59

empty desperate fear of

13:01

incoherence somehow loses

13:04

its urgency. A

13:07

short time later, when I get my

13:09

hands on my own booze, it

13:12

doesn't take long to connect the

13:14

deep gulps to filling a hole

13:16

in my core. So

13:20

this is how people get through life, I

13:22

think. It's

13:24

fantastic. And

13:28

I'll do anything at all that I need to get it. I'm

13:41

in sixth grade now. I

13:43

start having a couple of beers at parties. We're

13:46

a little reckless, my friends and I, but not

13:48

too bad. We drink

13:50

and make out with boys. Just

13:53

your garden variety suburban upper middle class kids

13:55

in the 70s. My

13:58

parents don't keep much booze in the house. but

14:00

my grandfather has plenty. A

14:03

refrigerator full of beer, stocked

14:05

liquor cabinets. At

14:07

first, I just pill for a few beers here and there.

14:10

By 14, I look old enough to

14:12

get served, and I begin buying booze

14:15

for myself. Soon

14:17

enough, I discover weed and

14:19

other things. You name it, I'll

14:22

do it. Pills, cocaine,

14:26

anything. Everything.

14:31

And I do as much of all of them as I

14:33

can at every opportunity. At

14:36

sleepovers, at school between

14:38

classes, and at

14:40

the beach house, where

14:42

I have more freedom than anywhere else. Before

14:46

I turned 23, I've been kicked out of

14:49

three schools. I have

14:51

hepatitis from using dirty needles, and

14:53

I'm homeless. Two

14:56

friends and I pool our cash for

14:58

a one-bedroom not far from the intercoastal

15:00

waterway in South Florida. I've

15:03

stopped using much of anything but weed

15:05

because nothing really works anymore. As

15:08

a result, money kind of builds up. You

15:11

can only drink so much, and

15:13

weed is cheap. Our

15:15

apartment is next to a bunch of stores and

15:18

the temporary bar, which is convenient.

15:21

Our bathroom is tiny, no windows.

15:26

A dim bulb. The

15:28

kind of bathroom you might find in a trailer.

15:32

The curtains are always closed in our ground

15:34

floor apartment. It

15:36

helps me hide. My

15:39

car has been repossessed. All

15:41

my stuff is gone. What

15:44

few shreds of clothes I had were in the

15:46

car. I don't even own

15:48

a hairbrush. This

15:50

morning, I'm the only one up. Everyone

15:53

has passed out. A few friends in the

15:55

bedroom. One or two more on the

15:57

couch. I

16:00

stand a few inches from the bathroom mirror and

16:02

look into my eyes. I

16:06

don't know why I would do this. The

16:09

light isn't very good. And

16:12

all I see is nothing. Just

16:16

blackness. Deep

16:18

black, which matches the

16:20

way I feel. They're

16:22

really empty. Gaunt.

16:28

Vacant. Absent.

16:33

Unredeemable. Gone.

16:41

It's so shocking that I actually gasp. I've

16:45

become so good at not seeing what I don't want to see. Dangerously

16:48

good at it. Like

16:50

my mother, standing over the kitchen

16:52

sink. I've

16:55

been telling myself that I was having fun. Or

16:58

at least doing okay. But

17:01

when I look into my eyes, I realize there's

17:03

nothing left. I

17:07

see this void, and I know

17:09

that I can't escape from the truth of what is. That

17:13

it has to end. For

17:17

as long as I can remember, I have tried to

17:19

fill the void. To

17:22

run from this feeling of incoherence. To

17:24

feel sated. But

17:27

there are just not enough drugs. There

17:31

will never be enough of anything.

17:43

There will never be enough of anything. Let

17:47

the mind be alive to those words, breathe with them. And

17:52

notice the response. The

17:55

reaction to Judith's message. There

17:57

will never be enough of anything. ten

18:32

In my first few years of sobriety, I

18:35

have this sort of superficial fullness. But

18:37

I keep going. My strategy

18:40

is to plow right through, keep

18:42

myself excessively busy with deadlines

18:44

and urgencies. I

18:47

look well. I'm earning my

18:49

PhD. I have skills.

18:52

I can roll a kayak. I'm a

18:54

decent skier. And I'm

18:58

a complete mess. I

19:00

console myself with plane tickets and ice cream.

19:03

I watch the dahlias coming up in my

19:06

yard, and I try to convince myself, something's

19:09

going to happen. But

19:11

still, I feel empty. I'm

19:15

in graduate school in Boulder, and

19:17

I'm desperate for a solution to this feeling.

19:20

I seek out mentors and teachers, like

19:23

wild sister Ansela. She

19:25

looks about 190 and walks with me stooped to 90 degrees.

19:31

This makes her always stare at the ground, as

19:34

she repeats over and over

19:36

the same three tedious words

19:38

in response to any and every question

19:40

I ask her. It's

19:43

a mystery. This

19:46

makes me so angry. But

19:49

I also think, yeah, but

19:51

I'm still drawn to keep coming back to

19:53

hear her say it. The

19:56

Quaker meeting I attend is at the other end of

19:59

town. and 30 minutes by

20:01

bike. The

20:03

building is very nondescript. I

20:06

grew up in Catholic churches, so this? It

20:09

isn't beautiful. But

20:11

I am absolutely fascinated by the fact that

20:14

no one's in charge. No

20:16

one's up at the front with all the answers in a

20:18

Quaker meeting house. I

20:20

love that nobody has authority here, which

20:23

means there is no one to argue with. The

20:26

pews are arranged in a circle. With

20:30

an empty space in the middle. There's

20:33

a window across the room, and I

20:35

sit to look out with my back to the wall. It's

20:39

quiet. Occasionally, people

20:41

stand up and voice whatever is on

20:44

their minds. Maybe read

20:46

a poem or tell a story or

20:48

mutter things that no one seems to understand.

20:53

But mostly, it's quiet. Quiet

20:55

and without pretense, and

20:58

both suit me. I

21:01

haven't made any friends here. I

21:03

arrive late and leave early. But

21:06

today, something extraordinary happens. As

21:12

I take a seat, I

21:14

return to the question I keep asking

21:16

myself over and over.

21:21

What should I do with my life? Who

21:25

should I be? These

21:28

questions gnaw at me. I'm

21:31

desperate for an answer. And

21:34

suddenly, a voice, as

21:37

clear and coherent as I am

21:39

right now, says

21:41

to me, just

21:44

this. You're

21:47

doing it. All

21:55

of the oxygen leaves me. Whatever

21:58

it is I had hoped might answer. me, I'm

22:01

not prepared for this. It

22:05

offers no plan, no direction,

22:08

no comfort, no security.

22:11

It does not tell me to please anybody or

22:15

to be anybody. It

22:18

involves no degree or achievement and

22:21

it's the last thing I expect to hear. I

22:25

expect the answers to my questions to come

22:27

as a sort of color brochure. Something

22:30

with clear instructions to do this,

22:33

be that. But

22:35

what I get is not that and

22:38

not that somehow is

22:41

just right. If

22:44

I had just heard the voice and

22:46

not felt the peace I wouldn't

22:48

have believed it. But

22:51

I'm suddenly and completely filled

22:53

with peace. It's

22:57

as if I've gone skydiving and

23:00

jumping out of the plane suddenly

23:02

realize I don't have a parachute. But

23:06

after a bit, I

23:11

realize there's

23:13

no ground. Like

23:15

even though I'm falling, even

23:19

though I feel completely lacking in

23:21

every way, there's

23:23

nothing wrong with that. There's

23:26

nothing to be concerned about. It's

23:34

hard to make friends when you're 50. I'm

23:37

teaching at a university in Pennsylvania where

23:40

I do valuable research in a field I

23:42

am passionate about studying the role of the

23:45

brain in drug addiction. I have

23:48

a family of my own but for now until

23:50

they move I'm up here by

23:52

myself and I'm

23:54

lonely. I'm afraid of getting to

23:56

the end of my life only to realize I

23:58

wiped the counter 20 zillion like

24:00

my mother. I made some good

24:02

meals, served up some

24:04

good, whatever. Don't

24:07

get me wrong, I don't want fame, I

24:09

just want meaning. I

24:11

crave meaning. My

24:14

life looks great, but is it? I've

24:17

run out of solutions. It

24:20

feels to me like the gig is kind of

24:22

up, and for the last time.

24:25

And I still have what? 40 years

24:27

ahead of me if I'm healthy to get through. A therapist

24:32

someone recommended to me has no room

24:34

for new patients, but

24:36

she does have a space available in her

24:38

women's group. There

24:40

are 11 of us, ranging in age

24:42

from 25 to 75. We meet in an ugly room in an unpleasant

24:47

building. The chairs are

24:50

uncomfortable. There isn't enough

24:52

space and there isn't enough light.

24:56

Still, I show up dutifully

24:58

every other Tuesday. The

25:01

woman who leads the group, Janelle,

25:04

is 10 years older than I am, and

25:07

she's very wise. She

25:09

can sense how I'm doing just by the tone

25:11

of my voice. She

25:13

becomes a mentor, and

25:15

one day she says to me, you

25:19

need to make friends with emptiness. And she

25:22

hands me a small empty bowl. My

25:27

first response is to physically recoil.

25:31

Are you kidding me? No

25:33

way. I won't do it.

25:36

I am furious. Tears

25:38

stream down my cheeks. A

25:41

bowl with nothing in

25:44

it. And

25:47

she wants me to make friends with this,

25:50

with nothing. I've

25:53

spent my whole life desperately trying

25:55

to evade emptiness. To

25:58

fill it, even in sobriety. with

26:01

books, with school, with food,

26:03

with men, anything to distract

26:05

me from this feeling. And

26:08

mind you, this isn't a group about existential

26:10

pain, women going

26:12

through divorces, battling cancer. But

26:16

I am so ashamed at how I

26:18

feel, by my

26:20

inability after all these years to

26:22

just get through a day that

26:24

I feel caught and I feel trapped. I

26:28

have the feeling this bowl is hot and I don't even

26:30

want to touch it, but

26:33

I take the empty bowl. I

26:36

try to puzzle out what the bowl means, why

26:39

she's given it to me. I

26:42

don't want the bowl. I don't want

26:44

to gaze into the emptiness. Am

26:46

I supposed to put something in it? What

26:49

if I gaze into it and see

26:51

nothing? The

26:54

feeling of emptiness has always been too much for

26:56

me to bear, especially

26:58

now, without drugs, sober

27:02

and aging. No,

27:05

I tell myself, just be with it.

27:08

Just sit with the damn emptiness. At

27:13

first, the bowl sits on the car

27:15

seat next to me. Then

27:18

I pull it out from under the stuff on top of it.

27:22

At night, I put it on the table by my

27:24

bed. I carry it

27:26

in my purse and put it on the desk in my

27:28

office. And

27:31

eventually, I begin thinking of it like a friend.

27:43

Can you see the bowl? Feel

27:47

its presence as Judith does. In

27:51

your mind, what color do you sense it having?

27:54

How does it feel in the hand? Its

27:57

weight? Its texture? in

28:02

this. In

28:38

some way I can't articulate, I start

28:41

to feel better. As

28:46

I discover a kind of peace in it, I'm

28:48

also more content in my life. I'll

28:51

be in a situation that isn't fun, sitting

28:53

in a meeting or grading papers. And

28:57

I'll think of my bowl, or see my bowl,

28:59

and feel a sense of connection and solace. The

29:04

bowl teaches me to be spacious in my

29:06

response to life, to

29:08

be bigger. I've

29:10

spent a lifetime trying desperately to fill

29:12

the void, with books,

29:15

alcohol, drugs, work,

29:17

degrees, money, and even love.

29:20

Without them to soothe me, I feared

29:23

I'd have nothing. But

29:26

the void I've come to learn has no

29:28

bottom. There

29:30

is simply no end to craving. There

29:34

is never enough to fill it with.

29:40

That feeling of emptiness, the

29:43

void that once overwhelmed me

29:45

with dread, now offers freedom.

29:50

To hold the bowl is to embrace

29:52

emptiness, uncertainty,

29:55

and powerlessness. The

29:58

more I embrace these things, the more I feel. things. The

30:02

bigger I grow, and

30:04

the bigger I grow, the

30:06

more I can hold. And

30:10

so it begs the question, if

30:12

the bowl is empty, then

30:15

what am I holding? Sitting

30:19

quietly, the answer comes back to me

30:21

again, as

30:23

clearly as it did that morning at the

30:25

Quaker Meeting House all

30:28

those years ago. Just this, it

30:30

says. Just this.

31:01

Thank you Judith, so much. You

31:04

shared a lot and it really touched me. So

31:07

everyone, let's take a

31:09

few breaths to settle down and in just a

31:12

moment, I'll guide you through a closing meditation. Okay,

31:18

where to start? Let's

31:20

just start with how you're doing. Do

31:23

the story was a lot. So

31:26

let's just take a little while to check in with ourselves.

31:29

Noticing any tension and holding that might be

31:32

here in response to what Judith shared. Any

31:36

thoughts that might be running around? Acknowledging

31:39

how you're feeling? Acknowledging

31:41

what is happening? Acknowledging

31:56

what Judith's story of addiction brought up for

31:58

you? there is

32:00

sadness, knowing that and

32:05

if there is self-judgment, no need

32:07

to get caught up in it and

32:14

if there isn't much of anything, being okay with

32:16

that too I

32:27

love the Quaker ritual that Judith talked about,

32:30

sitting together with others in silence

32:33

and people only speaking now and then if

32:36

they feel moved to do so growing

32:39

our comfort with silence and

32:42

bringing new subtlety and depth to what it

32:44

means to truly listen so

32:47

let's do that let's

32:49

sit in silence together and

32:52

notice what we feel moved to say just

33:11

this just

33:15

knowing what is happening in your body mind

33:17

as it is happening just

33:20

this just

33:27

this nothing else

33:29

to do, nowhere else to be

33:33

just this just

33:36

this many

33:49

important meditation traditions talk about emptiness

33:52

about how when we look, really look for

33:54

something solid and certain, it's not

33:57

there so

33:59

while we can stay trapped on the wheel of

34:01

chasing something to feel that emptiness, there's

34:03

no need. Instead,

34:06

we make friends with emptiness, and

34:09

fall like there is no ground. It's

34:14

a mystery. Long

34:17

may it be so. Thank

34:27

you, Judith. And wherever you are,

34:30

take care and go well. Meditative

34:53

Story is a way-to-work original in

34:56

partnership with Thrive Global. The

34:58

show is produced at the studio inside SY

35:01

Partners in New York. Our

35:03

executive producers are Deron Triff, June

35:05

Cohen, Arianna Huffington and Dan Katz.

35:08

Our producer is Timothy Lu Li.

35:11

Our supervising producer is Jay Punjabi.

35:14

Our curator is Carrie Goldstein. Original

35:17

music and sound design is by the Holiday

35:19

Brothers. Mixing and

35:22

mastering by Brian Pugh. Special

35:25

thanks to Anne Sacks, Juliana

35:27

Stone, Summer Matyce, Monica

35:29

Lee, Lindsay Benoitte-Connel,

35:32

Libby Duke, Smithee

35:34

Sinha, Stephanie Gonzalez

35:36

and Sarah Sandman. And

35:39

I'm Rohan Ganojilika, creator of the

35:41

Buddhify meditation app and your host.

35:47

Visit meditativestory.com to

35:49

find the transcript for this episode. you