ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Tami Simon is the founder of Sounds True, a publishing house for spiritual wisdom. For much of her life, Tami yearns to fit in. She often feels like an alien. In today’s episode, she tells the story of learning to tune into the frequencies of the people and places that make her feel at home. It’s when she’s open to those connections, that she finds belonging.

From WaitWhat this is Meditative Story, where immersive first-person stories and mindfulness prompts inspire you to reflect on your inner life. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide.

The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open, your mind open, meeting the world.

TAMI SIMON: I walk in a long line of students down an outdoor hallway. It’s loud, with people laughing and joking with each other. This school is so much bigger than my normal school. I wait patiently in the line to get into the cafeteria. I’m eleven years old.

Two kids walk up to me. There must be 50 kids in this line, but these two stop right in front of me. They stare at me. As the taller one opens his mouth, I tense up. “Are you a boy or a girl?” he asks.

I say nothing. Do I look that different from the other kids? I’m thin and my hair is some combination of curly and frizzy. I look down at my clothes — jeans and a T-shirt. 

I don’t know what to think. I feel a little stunned. Taken aback. Maybe they’re curious, but why do they care?

I’m only at this school because I’m in an enrichment program for (supposedly) gifted kids. I come here twice a week. My normal elementary school has a hundred kids in a grade. This school has a thousand kids per grade. I feel a bit like a stranger in a strange land. 

The boy standing in front of me repeats his question: “Come on! Are you a boy or a girl?” There are so many things we can talk about. Why is this the question he’s asking?

I feel tension in the air, like this could turn into something. I just wait. Finally the two kids get bored of just standing here. They both turn and walk away. I feel relieved. 

The truth is, I don’t quite feel male or female. I don’t quite know what I am. I feel disconnected from the whole human species. I don’t seem to fit the norms. I feel like an outsider, almost alien. 

I don’t exactly fit in at home, either. As a baby, my mom nicknames me Big Mouth because I cry and scream so much. She doesn’t know what to do with me and all the energy I express. Now that I’m in 5th grade, she still doesn’t know what to do with me. 

There are all these things I want to talk about that nobody seems to want to talk about. When I’m having dinner with my mom, I ask her, “I’ve heard that we have the power as human beings to use nuclear war to destroy each other. Can we talk about that?” To which my mom says, “Can we NOT talk about that at the dinner table, please?” And I say, “Okay, when are we going to talk about it?” 

There is never a time to talk about it. 

I wake up inside my tent. It’s a little green pop-up that can hold two people, but this week, it’s just me. I’m camping out in the big field at the edge of the Swarthmore campus in eastern Pennsylvania. The tent smells, well, how tents always smell, a bit musty. But I can also smell the scent of the fresh grass right outside the open zipper. 

I slowly sit up, legs still in my sleeping bag, and scan the pile of materials lying next to me: my notepad, pens and books.

I’m a sophomore at Swarthmore College, and I’m working on something for my philosophy class: An essay on the connection between Nietzsche’s Ubermensch — someone who doesn’t follow or obey the laws of others, and the Bodhisattva — the one who fully dedicates themselves to awakening and being of service. They actually have a lot more in common than you might think. 

This project is important to me, so I throw myself into it. As I write, I want to just be alone. I want to be with the trees and with open air, to have space to think deeply. 

I spend the day reading and contemplating the motivations fueling these two archetypes. In time, I begin to hone in on a key idea: that the human desire to contribute to the lives of other people is a core driver, a passion to create good. It feels to me like a human superpower…like there’s actually an underlying purposefulness and meaning in being here. Perhaps even I belong to the human species in some way — and can contribute — because this drive is so strong in me. 

A week later, I sit in a lecture hall and look up at the big blackboard at the front of the room. I’m one of maybe 100 students. The teacher walks around the room handing back our papers. I’m eager to see what he thinks about everything I wrote during my time in my tent. He sets my paper down and walks past, I pick it up and turn it over. The grade he’s given me is a whole lot lower than I expected. Three words are written at the top, in red pen: “You’ve. Misunderstood. Nietzsche.”

I’m wounded. I feel rejected. I poured myself into those pages. 

I stare down at my paper and think, “Well, yeah, I might’ve misunderstood Nietzsche, but you’ve misunderstood me.”

I had found something inside me that feels like a burning reason to be, and I tried to put it into words and create some kind of understanding, a meeting of minds if you will, but I don’t feel met. It’s something that I feel in a lot of my classes.

It reinforces an obvious truth I’ve known for some time: I don’t belong in academia. As much as I love learning, I don’t fit at college.

But if I don’t belong here, in the philosophy department, where am I going? Where will my passion, energy, interest, curiosity, intensity … where will it take me?

GUNATILLAKE: We all have moments where we feel rejected, or misunderstood. When Tami feels this way, she is still able to channel her energy forward, to think about where she might go next. Can you embody that progressive energy

SIMON: I slowly walk down the rock-covered beach and look across the water to the coastal mountains. It’s a clear day, and in the distance I can see a full range of exalted snow-capped peaks that I affectionately name “The Biggies.” Breathtaking. The Island known as Cortes is a truly magical island in British Columbia — it’s lush, with rich soil, lots of decaying leaves, mushrooms, ferns, and rocks covered in bright green moss.

My first exposure to this island was one year ago, when I was invited to speak at a small retreat center here as part of a socially conscious business program on “True Confessions” about how I started a media company dedicated to disseminating spiritual wisdom. 

This year, I’ve come to the Cortes Island retreat just for fun. I am 39 years old, and single. 

On the final night of the retreat — at the closing dance party — I find myself drawn to a woman also attending the retreat, a beautiful woman named Julie. At one point, we both sit next to each other in chairs that are surrounding the dance floor. We sit silently like this for more than 30 minutes. I sense into the space between us. What I feel is a perfect quiet fullness. A completeness, something I’ve never felt before.

Julie — she’s the reason why I’m up early on this Sunday morning, walking across the slippery stones on the beach. Julie seems quite a bit more facile walking on the rocks. I try to keep up with her. I don’t want to mess up whatever is happening between us. 

As we near the end of the beach, Julie turns left, glancing back at me to make sure I’m okay. I smile and pick up my pace a little. We walk to the line of trees at the edge of the beach. 

Julie sits on the ground and gestures for me to come sit. She creates a space for me. This act feels so powerful. Inviting. And welcoming.

I lower myself onto the sand — the same ground that supports the roots of the cedar trees that are shading us. We both face the water. Being with her right now feels more like being with a flower than a human — perfectly sensitive. Gentle. Sitting here with Julie, I’m surprised by our magnetic connection. So surprised that it feels like I’ve been shot by a stun gun. 

I think to myself, I have no idea where this is heading, but I’m in. 

I return to Cortes Island three years later to record a program with an author who lives here.

We meet at a studio on the island, a yurt-like building, ready to record. 

When we arrive, the woman who owns the studio space approaches us, she says “I just got a call from the engineer and I’m sorry to report that he missed not one but two ferries. He’s not going to be here for four hours. Time to make yourselves comfortable”

Great, I think. How am I going to keep this brilliant man entertained? His left brain is so fast, fast, fast. Holy god, what are we going to do for four hours?

I look at the woman who owns the studio. I beg. You’ve got to help me. 

I see in her eyes she has an idea. “Why don’t we go walk the land together?” she says. I want to show you around and tell you about a project I’m working on.

“Great,” I think to myself. “That’ll take a while. Let’s start walking.” 

Together, we walk on forest trails, over large boulders, and onto a rocky beach. She leads us to the shoreline of a 160-acre parcel of land that’s being threatened to be clear-cut. She’s worked to rezone this parcel, to turn the property into an eco-forestry non-profit such that the land will be preserved and will contain 15 different building sites.

She and the author and I walk up to the mossy bluffs. 

They’re about 250 feet above the water. It’s an absolutely jaw-dropping 180 degree view, looking out over what’s known as Desolation Sound. After an hour or so of walking, I plant my feet on the dirt and rocks, soften my gaze, and stare out at the distant mountains. What I see and feel is Vastness. Small uninhabited islands are surrounded by waterways, and in the distance, multiple mountains of different heights, some snow capped. I think to myself, “this view stops the mind”. 

As I look outwards, I feel something behind me, something I can’t explain. Now, I’m not someone who regularly has visions. And I don’t take psychedelics. But I sense something’s moving. Instead of the ground being underneath my feet, I feel it’s starting to lift up, almost like a carpet that has a wave in it, and I can feel the wave rise and touch me on my shoulder — almost like it’s grabbing my shoulder. 

I don’t see this. I feel it. Viscerally. There’s a weightedness to it. It’s so odd. What Is Going On?

The touch on my shoulder feels almost like some type of giant is tapping me.

But that’s not the most surprising part. The most surprising part is what I hear.

I hear these four words: “You belong to me.” 

What an odd thought. Not that the land belongs to me, but that I belong to it. It’s that feeling again, of surprise and connection to something magical, something so much bigger than me. Something that can support me, and hold me. 

And then immediately, on the spot, I commit to being a member of this new land collective, even though I would need to take a substantial loan out to do so. 

I follow the call. 

I feel something here I’ve never felt before. Looking out from the bluff, my outer world and my inner world feel in sync. There is a kind of unification, a matching of inner and outer wilderness, the external landscape feels like it reflects my own inner complexity and brings to it spaciousness and stillness. 

I choose to listen to words that feel trustworthy, even though they come from an unknown source. And to respond to a touch that feels more real than real, yet is wholly mysterious. And by doing so, I begin to find my place.

GUNATILLAKE: Tami is so open here and so relaxed. Let’s ourselves open out that little bit more, giving ourselves permission to relax that little bit more.

SIMON: I sit at my desk in my home office in West Vancouver. Blue walls behind me, and on my desk, a framed picture of our beloved cocker spaniel, Jasmine, and another picture of my Mom and Dad at their wedding. I’m preparing for a meeting that I have soon.

My wife Julie walks in. We’ve been together now for almost 23 years. I feel her presence in the room before I hear her or look up. She’s gorgeous. She has a birdlike quality, with skinny legs and a beaky nose, yet it is her radiance that slays me. When we write each other love letters, we call them bird songs.

Julie helps me feel safe in my body and in my heart which has helped me learn how to open and connect with other people. And meditation. Meditation helps me occupy and stay with the intensity of the inner energy of my body. But it’s taken years of work. I had a mentor one day challenge me by saying, “Tami, you’ve mastered the role of the monk in a cave who spends their time practicing alone and the mad scientist who creates alone. How about learning how to connect, and commune with others?” 

My response, “Holy god.” Now that’s scary. But I know it’s my next frontier. Where my growth will come from. So I lean in. And over the years I learn to turn towards Julie instead of isolating when I feel upset. And I learn how to trust Julie and others with my underbelly, the softest and most vulnerable parts.

Now, here at my desk as Julie comes in, I feel her presence.

She walks up to my chair and touches me gently on the shoulder, and I feel my entire body relax. There’s a quality in the touch. It causes everything to shift. It’s like when you’re parched and someone gives you a cool glass of water. Suddenly, “I feel so much better! That’s exactly what I needed!” And you drink the whole thing. 

That’s kind of how I feel. My whole sense of how I feel in my body changes in this incredibly positive way. I feel a lightness, a melting glittery feeling. 

For most of my life I’ve felt like I didn’t belong, like I was more of an alien than a human being—but really, neither. And I still wrestle with these feelings in some ways. But I listen to the universe when I can hear it talking to me. And I’m reconfiguring my life to meet what’s being asked, and I don’t yet know all of the what and the why it’s still being shown, still unfolding. 

And I’m okay with that. Most of the time. It’s okay to just stay open. To devote ourselves to the people to whom we belong, and the places where we belong. 

It means being sensitive, attuned. And listening. 

I don’t want to miss a single touch on my shoulder. Do you?

Rohan’s closing meditation

ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Thank you Tami.

Tami is someone whose work I’ve followed, gained a lot from and have been entirely in awe of for well over a decade so it’s a total privilege to guide a meditation inspired by her story. 

And since Tami says it’s ok to stay open, let’s start there.

Encouraging openness.

Even when we don’t feel particularly open, we can use the beautiful power of the mind-body connection by nudging our body to be more open, an invitation for the mind to follow.

Raising the chin just a touch.

Softening the shoulders.

Aahhh.

Allowing the chest to be open.

The chest open.

A dance between vulnerability and strength.

The belly soft.

The hands soft.

The fingers open.

Using my words as inspiration for you to do what feels best for you.

Opening the body in the way your body wants to open.

Unfurling like the Tiger Lillies which are seen across Cortes Island in the Springtime.

Now we’re that little bit more open.

Let’s rest into the other theme of Tami’s story that naturally follows on.

That of tuning in, tuning into frequencies.

Tami speaks of frequencies of people and of places.

So let us sense what is here.

Step one: being open and receptive.

Step two: letting curiosity lead the way.

Step three: receiving what is here to be received, whatever that might be.

Tami described it so perfectly…

Someone to touch and someone to feel that touch.

Open.

Curious.

Sensitive to that which we might otherwise miss.

And when the unexpected arises, meeting it with an open chest and an open heart.

No fear.

Thank you Tami, for everything.

And thank you, for everything else.

We’d love to hear your personal reflections from Tami’s episode. How did you relate to her story? You can find us on all your social media platforms through our handle @MeditativeStory. Or you can email us at: [email protected].