Good Life Project - Andrew Forsthoefel: Walking to Listen, a 4,000 Mile Odyssey.

Episode Date: May 15, 2017

Guest: Andrew Forsthoefel is a writer, radio producer, public speaker, and author of Walking to Listen: 4,000 Miles Across America, One Story at a TimeStory: At 23, Andrew walked out the back door of his home in Pennsylvania, with a backpack and a sign that read “Walking to Listen.” Some 4,000 miles and countless conversations later, he found himself on the West Coast. More important, he found so many stories of grace and struggle, beauty and humanity.Big idea(s): When you see everyone as your equal and your teacher, the world becomes an astonishing place.You'd never guess: How a simple act of kindness from a random trucker left him weeping along the highway.Current passion project: Facilitating workshops on walking and listening as practices in personal transformation, interconnection, and conflict resolution.Rockstar sponsors:Bombas socks - Ridiculously yummy and when you buy a pair, they give a pair to someone in need. Get 20%-off your first order when you enter the code GOODLIFE at checkout. Go to BOMBAS.COM/GOODLIFE.Oganifi - Great-tasting organic superfood green juice powder that you just add to water and get all your greens in on the go! Get 20% off - use the code "goodlife" at check out at organifi.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

You know, seeing them as worthy of my time and attention, worthy of their place in the world, you know, seeing them as if they belonged, seeing them as if they might have something to offer. And asking people questions in that way allowed them to sing songs they never even realized they had in them. And so in seeing people this way, it often had the effect of inviting them to see me that way. And when we were seeing, when there was that mutual sort of osmotic flow of respect, even reverence, you know, love is a word that can be used to describe that kind of space.

When today's guest, Andrew Forth-Zoffel, was 23 years old, fresh out of college, he had some big decisions to make about what he wanted to do as his next step. Well, he decided to turn that next step into a 4,000-mile solo walk across the United States. He was, in his words, walking to listen. He wanted to go and explore and ask people about their lives and their stories and what mattered and who they were. And do it on the ground while processing this, moving his own body and pushing himself physically. What unfolded was an absolutely astonishing journey with stories that changed his life in a really profound way. And he's written into a powerful book called Walking to Listen. And I really enjoyed being able to share in that

journey with him and some of his beautiful stories and awakenings. I hope you enjoy his journey as well. I'm Jonathan Fields. This is Good Life Project. Watch ever, making it even more comfortable on your wrist, whether you're running, swimming, or sleeping. And it's the fastest charging Apple Watch, getting you eight hours of charge in just 15 minutes. The Apple Watch Series 10, available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum. Compared to previous generations, iPhone XS or later required, charge time and actual results will vary. Mayday, mayday. We've been compromised. The pilot's a hitman.

I knew you were going to be fun. January 24th. Tell me how to fly this thing. Mark Wahlberg. You know what the difference between me and you is? You're going to die. Don't shoot him, we need him. Y'all need a pilot.

Flight risk. You actually first came onto my radar. I want to say it was either This American Life or The Moth Piece. And then it's been fun to kind of dive into your story a little bit. So as we're hanging out here today, you have this amazing journey behind you. You, I guess, graduated college, 23 years old, and decided that you wanted to walk 4,000 miles across the country. And I want to get into that. I want to get into a lot of the why and the what and some of the big stories. One of my curiosities is before this,

would people have known you as the kid who would do something like that? I think my mom would probably say yes. And I think some of my high school friends would probably say yes. Why? Well, I don't think they would have known that it would have become what it did become specifically. But I think I always had just the seeds of curiosity. Some of them latent, you know, some of them unblossomed. But, you know, just an interest in people and sort of that dumb wonder you know what i mean just like asking questions that would appear to be um sort of like silly but when you really dig into them it's like well there's actually something here

you know like the question as i'm saying it now is just who am I? You know, for some people that would just, that would appear to be a sort of a silly question. But, you know, it has a way of untangling and unraveling all kinds of stories about who I thought I was. And so when I was young, I wasn't, obviously wasn't speaking in those terms or thinking in those terms. But I was just, I think, at least trying to be curious about things that I was told weren't interesting, like the people surrounding me. I mean, I remember, here's an

example. In high school, I remember I'd been there for three years. At the end of our third year, we were doing class elections. And I remember this one girl stood up to give her speech. And we were in the chapel and it was kind of dark, you know, and there was this light on the, I guess it was the altar or whatever. And this girl was giving her speech and I was looking at her sort of uninterruptedly for a couple minutes. And I realized after 60 seconds of looking at her that I'd never actually looked at this girl. I'd never actually seen her, you know, or bothered to give her the time and attention that I think every human deserves. And it was a moment like that of, oh my God, right? Like this human being deserves my

curiosity, my questions. And as a teenager, I was learning how to bring that kind of attention to bear on people and with people, for people. But just little moments like that, you know, that might have passed me by. Were you aware of how unusual that is at that age, let alone any age? No. No, I wasn't. And, and I don't think I, I think it's only in recent years, like post-walk that I I'm becoming aware of how unusual it is to not just be interested in trying to give people attention in that way, but then actually being able to do it is a, is, is a rare skill and I'm still learning how, you know, but yeah, the more I sort of look around

and realize, my God, very few are listening in that way. Yeah. Curious whether you've had any training as an artist or in art. I studied some photography in high school, but I'd say my training in art, if I ever had any, would have been in the creative writing art, you know, studied creative writing at Middlebury. And then I think, I mean, I have to say, I think this walk sort of offered a kind of training that many artists probably receive, just a training in observation, a training in awareness and exquisite attention. You know, there was a way in which slowing down

sort of forced me to look at this present moment, which is the fodder for creation, you know, in a way that I think probably art school might similarly do. Yeah. So, let's explore. Let's kind of get into the walk. So you're, you graduate college, study creative writing, and it comes a time where you're like, huh, what's the next step? So what were you choosing between? So around the beginning of my senior year, I decided I wanted to apply for a Watson fellowship, which is a fellowship and they give you $25,000 to go study a project of your own making abroad alone. So, I was thinking, all right, if I hadn't... Detecting common theme.

It's like, go somewhere far away, all alone. I was curious about what those parameters might offer, you know, as far as the learning experience goes. And so, I just, it gave me the excuse to start thinking about what I would choose to dedicate myself to if I had, you know, all the money I needed, all the resources at my disposal. What would I do? What question would I serve? And as I was putting that application together, this idea of coming of age came to mind, you know, this idea of coming of age came to mind, you know, this question of coming of age.

What is it? What actually is it? You know, I had supposedly come of age, I was a 23-year-old man, or about to be, and a college graduate. And I was left with all these ambiguities about what it actually meant to be an adult. And so, I thought, all right, if I was left with all these questions in this particular version of coming of age in America, what if I went to a totally different corner of the world and saw how people in a completely different context come of age and bring their

young people into adulthood? And so I wanted to study and learn from indigenous communities. And I had a whole plan and didn't end up getting the fellowship. And so I decided I was going to go for it anyways, make some money and got a job on a lobster boat, made some money, but then got fired before I had enough money to fund the project I had been planning on. All right, what'd you get fired for? That, well, it's relevant actually to this book to fund the project I had been planning on. All right, what'd you get fired for? What happened?

It's relevant, actually, to this book because I started a storytelling blog while I was lobstering with the idea of just sort of celebrating this experience and just documenting what was happening, but didn't ask the lobster boat captain's permission. And even though this was something that I felt was, you know, like, yeah. Fair game. Fair game and like sort of like honoring this lifestyle and, you know, like when he did find out about it, he wasn't okay with it.

And after a couple more weeks of tension and awkwardness fired me. So it was, I mean, for me as a writer, it was learning, my God, like, it is a big deal to write about someone's life, even if you think you're doing it in a sort of praiseworthy kind of a way. And even if only like your mom and her friends are reading about it, you know, it was this very small blog and yet it touched on something in this captain. So, it was humbling and felt terrible. Felt like to think that this man felt betrayed by me in some way when my intention had been to honor him and us with my words,

it felt terrible. I mean, it's such an interesting question for a writer, especially somebody who's really new to space or somebody who's been there for years and years and years, especially when who's really new to space, or somebody who's been there for years and years and years, especially when there's any form of memoir. Because part of your story is always going to be how it relates to other people's stories. And it's like, where's the line between your desire to be truthful about your experience and at the same time respect the privacy the needs the wants of others and it's

um i had this conversation with a lot of writers and there's no one you know everyone just kind of says you know they feel their way through it and sometimes sometimes they feel really good about what they do and sometimes they you know in hindsight they end up not feeling good or they end up hurting people or it causes a lot of angst. It's interesting that happened at such an early moment for you and also in the context of a lobster boat captain who happened to just stumble upon a small blog. Yeah. I mean, I think the pretty clear lesson for me from that is to start completely transparent. You know, like I, the place where I was culpable, I think, was I didn't let him know or ask his permission to begin with. And if I had, then whatever would have come after

would have been in the clear, I think. But I mean, that's really, you know, it's so interesting, though, because at the same time, yes, you know, if you want to be 100% respectful, but at the same time yes if you you know if you want to be a hundred percent respectful yeah but at the same time the moment that somebody knows that this is being yeah like there's there's extra attention being paid here is it going to change their behavior is it going to change the nature of the story that would unfold because they know that part of the you know part of what's happening is this is being recorded potentially for retelling.

Yeah. So it's delicate, you know, because on the one hand you do want to be truthful, but at the same time you may get a less than truthful experience because it becomes somewhat manufactured. It's tough. Yeah. Yeah. I guess on the walk eventually down the road when I asked people,

so I recorded a bunch of conversations with people and I would always ask permission before. And as you're saying, I think there was definitely a way in which the nature of the conversation changed and perhaps became, maybe people became a little more cautious. But I would say what I felt, well, it became an interview. The moment I took out a recorder, it was no longer a conversation, it was an interview. And it allowed people to express themselves and take the full stage in ways that they probably wouldn't have in just a conversation. I gave them permission to do so. And what came out of them after that was often beautiful, you know, and challenging. I think, you know, you might be surprised about what people continued to choose to show me, even as their words were being documented,

you know, tender stories, sort of horrifying stories, you know, like real, real stories. Yeah. No. And I've heard some of those, you know, you produce this beautiful audio documentary where you shared a lot of those stories, which is really moving. So let's kind of get back into the timeline. So, cause I want, I want to circle back to this, but let's just give a little more context. So you end up basically. So I got fired. Right. So you're like, okay, so I'm out of college. I didn't get this grant that I wanted to. I worked on a lobster boat. A couple weeks in, I get fired. Now what? So the immediacy of the questions I had within me that were propelling this would-be project were still there. That immediacy was there. The urgency was there. And I didn't feel that I could just ignore that, you know, be like, oh, okay, well, I don't have the money I thought I was going to have. I guess I'll just

forget about these. I couldn't forget, you know, about this question of who am I and who are we? You know, who are we as a people, actually? Boots on the ground, you know, I don't, you know, like free of any middlemen, you know, the middlemen of social media or the media or, you know, what the politicians are telling us we are. Like, I want to know who we are actually face to face. And so, the thought of just walking out my mom's back door started to appeal. It's like, yeah, what if I didn't fly halfway around the world to some other people, some other culture? What if I literally just walked out the back door and asked my people these questions I have? And what if I saw everyone as a teacher of some kind?

Whether they knew it or not, you know, what if I saw them with the eyes of respect? What if I looked at them as if they may have lived something that might inform my journey in some meaningful way? And that started to feel good. It started to, again, the more I thought about it, the more I felt like the experience would be conducive to some of the exploration I was hoping to do. So there'd be a lot of solitude.

And I wanted to find out who was there in the solitude. There'd be people, hopefully. There'd be a connection to the elements and the land. And it'd beitude. There'd be people, hopefully. There'd be a connection to the elements and the land. And it'd be slow. I'd have to slow down. And all these things sort of felt like, huh, I think that could be fruitful. Yeah. Had you done much traveling until then, or especially in this country, in the US? Not a whole lot. A little. Yeah. Not a whole lot in the US. And certainly not like that. not walking. Walking is a whole different animal. So when you start to share this idea with your mom, you know, if you wake up one day and I'm not in my room, don't worry.

I'm just out walking. Just got to do what I got to do. You know, so whatever this was, it had been sort of growing for some time. And so when it, you know, came into this actual form of, okay'm actually i actually am just gonna walk she wasn't surprised but um she had some some really challenging penetrating questions that allowed me to sort of focus in on the intention behind the project but never with with any sort of yeah she just did a great job of of not trying to influence me out of it. Do you remember the questions or one or two of the... Yeah, just simple questions like, why are you doing this actually? You know, is this to prove something?

Is it to be some sort of macho man? Or is it, what is it? You know, what is the question that is inspiring this? And how are you going to... Helping me out with some of the details. At first I thought maybe I wasn't going to take any money. And through conversation with her, it became clear that actually I didn't want to be wholly

and completely dependent on strangers because I didn't want to be going into conversations with sort of a hidden agenda of like, hey, I'm listening to your story. Can you put me up? Can I also have like 10 bucks? Yeah. Although I did i did i mean although there was a kind of a radical dependency sort of laced into the project um because i always needed i always did need a place to stay and i had a tent but i needed a plot of land to pitch it on you know so yeah she was very very helpful and continues

to be and friends it all happened so quick. I mean, by the time, so I got fired from that boat. And six weeks later, I was walking. So it happened, you know, it happened pretty quickly. And I told some of my friends, but many I just didn't have time to tell. So I was, I just, I was out, you know. I know you tell a story of sort of like the day that you left, you know, your mom was telling you that it was an upsetting moment for her.

Yeah. Yeah, my God. I mean, can you imagine letting your son go, you know, into the unknown, onto the highway, this like very hostile, dangerous place for a human being. For cars, it's fine. But for a human being, it's like a snail outside of its shell on the highway. And letting your son go into that. I mean, she, I think she was, it was a combination of both, you know, relief that I was doing this thing that I needed to do in order to find out who I was and come home to myself and terror that it might mean my death. And it just, you know, yeah, just surrender and

resistance and the whole thing. So she, yeah, the way she said it was, I'm mad at you. With love, you know, not with any manipulation or anything like that do you have any kids i do how old are they 15 yeah yeah i mean and i'm somebody who i was a rock climber um in younger years and i i had similar conversations with my mom when i would you know i you know grab the pack and go up to Colorado and vanish into these huge bluffs. Yeah. And she would tell me, you know, like later she would tell me how, like she literally wouldn't sleep, you know, just waiting to hear if I was okay.

And I think as a parent, you know, you're always constantly, you want your kid to go out into the world and experience life and explore the big questions and succeed and fail. But at the same time, you have two sort of aspirations for your kid as a parent, I think. One is that they discover who they really are and be happy, build a joyful, meaningful life around that. But before that, I think the primary desire for every parent is for their child to be safe.

Yeah. that I think the primary desire for every parent is for their child to be safe. So it's tough because those two aspirations very often battle each other. So, yeah, I mean, as a kid, I don't think I got it. As a parent, I get it now. And I don't have an easy answer. I don't think anybody does. Was that first night on the, you know, like the first night where you're like, huh, I'm doing this. What's it like for you? Oh man. Well, it was pretty incredible actually. I, um,

I'd had a sort of an amazing day's walk. Um, had this really remarkable connection with, with four homeless Latino guys. And after we had connected and experienced this unusual exchange, I got back on the train tracks. Actually, I was the first two days I was on these train tracks where, you know, train comes by once or twice a day, very slow. And I wanted to start there because it was sort of quieter than the road. And at the end of that first day, I was looking for a place to camp out. And I didn't want to stealth camp that first day, trespass, you know, so I was, I wanted to get permission to camp out. So I went into this neighborhood off the tracks, knocked on someone's door for the first time. And I'm wearing a big backpack, a sign that says walking to listen with an American flag on one side and an earth flag on the other, and I'm wearing a cowboy hat. So I just, I stick out, you know, and I'm knocking on this person's door,

and I sort of see someone like, in like the side window, a curtain, like, move, and like they never did answer the door. So I go to the next house, and this young mother opens the door with a baby on her hip, and I explain, hey, I'm Andrew. I'm walking across America, listening to people's stories. Day one, I'm just looking for a safe place to camp out. Could I pitch my tent on your lawn? And she said, no. But she said, my neighbor might help you out. So, she passed me off. And so, I knocked on her her neighbor's door and I saw as I was walking up that she had a yoga bumper sticker on her on her car and my mom's yoga teacher I was like okay this

might bode well you're like namaste yeah exactly and uh she opens the door and I do my little thing and she goes oh sure sure yeah go ahead and then come on in I'll you know got some dinner and get you some water and we were sitting there chatting at her table. And I asked her about the yoga sticker. And I said, are you a yoga teacher or whatever? She goes, yeah. I was like, oh my God, my mom is too. And she looks at me and says, is your mom Therese Jornlin?

And that is my mother. And somehow Allison Donnelly knew my mom. They were colleague yoga teachers and hadn't met each other yet, but had been sort of trying to for a couple of years. And I had synchronistically ended up at Allison's house of all places. So it felt like a good omen, you know. And that first night, all of the fear about how is this going to go? Where am I going to stay?

Like, it just feels impossible that this could, you know, work. All those fears were sort of eased by that. I got to imagine walking up to that first house, though. Must have been a bit terrifying. Yeah, my God. Yeah, what are they going to say? What are they going to do? Right.

How are they going to judge me? Or are they going to scream at me? Or are they going to, what are they going to do? Right. How are they going to judge me? Or are they going to scream at me? Or are they going to, what are they going to think of me? I mean, it was, it was a practice in, it was a practice in vulnerability and also in like recognizing my, my dependence, you know, the ways in which I just simply can't live my life alone on my own. Like, and, and how, if I ask for it support is there somewhere you know i got you know people said no plenty of times but but they also said yes and when they said no something else

happened you know at some point did you get fairly uh inoculated to the nose i yeah i became i became better at receiving no you know took it less personally less personally. It's like, it's fine. You don't need to say yes. It's okay. It was always a little, I mean, I respected the no, you know, but I was also always a little sad about it because I had seen what was possible when people said yes. Not just like, okay, I got to camp on someone's yard,

but like the connection that would often follow and the exchange of stories and sometimes the making of love, really. I mean, with people who had been strangers just hours before, you know, as we're going to bed saying, good night, I love you. Tell me more about that. I and we many times somehow entered this alchemical space where we were connecting in such a way that love felt like it was an appropriate word to use to describe what was happening. So I would be there with people. And I mean, my intention in these exchanges was to be, I was a listener. That's what I signed up to do, you know? And so as I walked and as I continued to learn about what listening was, I realized that it had something to do with receiving someone unconditionally, you know, non-judgmentally, regardless of what they're saying, not passively, you know, not glaze-eyed, comatose, I'm agreeing with everything you say, but allowance, acceptance, non-violence, free of malice. And I was learning how to listen in that way and show up to people in that way. And offering them, as I was saying before, my deep respect for their lives,

for their walk, you know, seeing them as worthy of my time and attention, worthy of their place in the world, you know, seeing them as if they belonged, seeing them as if they might have something to offer. And asking people questions in that way allowed them to sing songs they never even realized they had in them, you know, sometimes literally. But, you know, these songs I'm talking about just stories and sometimes wisdom. And so, in seeing people this way, it often had the effect of inviting them to see me that way. And when we were seeing, when there was that mutual sort of osmotic flow of respect, even reverence, you know, the intention for compassion. I mean, love is a word that can be used to describe that kind of space and so we and it was just the strangest thing you know to to have been strangers

with this person to have known nothing about them and to experience all the barriers that you know we we put up between each other you know it's like all the masks we wear and all that stuff. And then slowly for them to feel and realize that they were in the presence of a trustworthy listener, someone who wasn't interested in berating them or converting them or evangelizing anything. I just wanted to know who they were and celebrate them and honor them. So tell me a story. Share. I'd love to know. Tell me about a moment So tell me a story. Share. I'd love to know.

Tell me about a moment or tell me about a person where you sat down and on the surface it would appear that this person had a very different life and very different lens on the world and probably a very different value system and set of beliefs than you and something changed in that conversation yeah the apple watch series 10 is here it has the biggest display ever it's also the thinnest apple watch ever making it even more comfortable on your wrist whether you're running swimming or sleeping and it's the fastest charging Apple Watch.

Getting you 8 hours of charge in just 15 minutes. The Apple Watch Series X. Available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum. Compared to previous generations, iPhone XS or later required. Charge time and actual results will vary. Mayday, mayday. We've been compromised. The pilot's a hitman.

I knew you were going to be fun. On January 24th. Tell me how to fly this thing. Mark Wahlberg. You know what the difference between me and you is? You're going to die. Don't shoot him, we need him. Y'all need a pilot?

Flight risk. Well, there's one of my favorite stories that I tell often. yeah maybe i'll maybe i'll circle around back to there's another story i want to tell that i tell a little less often is profanity allowed on this show yeah okay podcast go where you need to go to tell a story so i'm this is in alabama and um but by the time i had got i got to al Alabama, I realized that although it was 2011, 2012, you know, there, there were still places where, you know, white people didn't really go or weren't really supposed to go and vice versa. Still an incredible amount of tension between white people and black people, people of color and white people, and just a whole shit show, you know? Not that that's not in the North and everywhere else too,

but in Alabama, it was very clear to see. And so I was at the end of one walking day and in the middle of nowhere, this rural, and there was this rundown gas station. Perfect. It's like, okay, great. I'll ask for permission to camp, see what happens. Go in there and, uh, they say, yeah, sure. You can camp out. No problem. Camp out out back. So I'm walking around out back and attached to the gas station was this barbershop. And there were probably about a dozen black men inside and all of my assumptions about how I was supposed to behave, and who these men were, and what they thought of me, and what would happen if we found ourselves in the same space,

all those assumptions started running in my mind, and fear came up, and just, you know, my own latent racism, my own prejudice, all the assumptions, you know, I'm watching them in my mind. And a part of what I wanted to do with this walk was lean into those things and challenge them by walking into reality, outside of the assumptions of my mind, into reality. And so, I was standing outside the door and I realized I want to just, I want to go in, see what happens. So, I walk inside this barbershop and all the guys look at me and the place goes silent. And I sort of say, I do my little thing. Hey, I'm Andrew. I'm walking across America, listening to people's stories. I'm just looking

for a place to camp out. You know, could I, could I pitch the tent out back? I already had permission, but it was sort of like my, just the conversation starter, icebreaker. And one of the barbers looks at me and goes, yeah, man, sure, whatever, you know, no big deal. So I go out back, this guy came with me out back and I asked him, hey, could I, you know, could I go, could I go back to the shop and just listen? I'm just listening. I would love to hang out. He goes, yeah, man, sure, whatever. Lots of stories there.

I go back, and I could tell that some of the, you know, here was this white boy hanging out in the middle of nowhere, Alabama, in this barbershop with a dozen or so African-American guys. And we were just human beings, man. That's all. You know, we were just human beings, man. That's all, you know, we were like, yes, there was this unusual configuration of human beings, but, you know, I just, it was simple. I just, I hung out the rest of the night just listening to these guys tell their stories. And at one point I realized the guy next to me didn't really understand that I had walked there from Philadelphia, like to listen to his story. And I said, no, no, yeah, I walked here to your

shop, walked from Philadelphia. And the guy goes, Philadelphia? God damn, he's a walking motherfucker, man. And I was so honored at that title to be said to have been bestowed this title like god i've walked far enough to be considered a walking motherfucker wow you know and and it wasn't anything extraordinary uh it wasn't anything there were no fireworks to this you know no one said i love you that night but it was just these human beings who might not otherwise have had the opportunity to interact because of the various social scripts and formulas that most of us follow so vigilantly and fearfully. You know, because there is this moment of transcendence of just, okay, let's just put ourselves out there. I put myself out there.

They put themselves out there by allowing me to stay. And then we had a good time, you know. There's moments like that. And I've got a couple others. Maybe we'll see which ones come up over the course of our time. It's so interesting to hear you share how it wasn't this big thing. It's like these really small human moments where really big sort of shifts can happen or awakenings can happen.

It's like the slightest phrase, the slightest utterance. And I wonder sometimes if we're sort of, you know, we're rushing through life, ignoring all those moments. This is actually a couple of years back, I sat down with Brene Brown and she said to me, because I think I was asking her, what does it mean

to live a good life? And she's like, you know, she said, we spend so much time steamrolling all the little moments that happen to us all day in the name of finding like the big moments that we think will define our existence. And it's about, like, when you really think about it, it's about those thousand moments that unfold every day that we ignore because we don't think they're consequential. Yeah, God. And what a tragic and hurtful thing to do to whatever it is or whoever it is

that's offering themselves to you in that moment, just to steamroll. I think about it in terms of, like, just the present moment in general is constantly offering me something, offering me a gift to experience. And for me to slap it away or to steamroll it away and say, this is what you're offering me? This isn't it. This is dog shit. You know, it's like, whatever this is, I don't care. I don't want it. It's something else. Like, what a, you know, what a harsh thing to do to someone or to something.

And I'm interested in receiving what is being offered me now. The Apple Watch Series 10 is here. It has the biggest display ever. It's also the thinnest Apple Watch ever, making it even more comfortable on your wrist, whether you're running, swimming, or sleeping. And it's the fastest charging Apple Watch, getting you eight hours of charge in just 15 minutes. The Apple Watch Series 10, available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum. Compared to previous generations, iPhone XS are later required.

Charge time and actual results will vary. Mayday, mayday. We've been compromised. The pilot's a hitman. I knew you were gonna be fun. On January 24th. Tell me how to fly this thing. Mark Wahlberg.

You know what the difference between me and you is? You're gonna die. Don't shoot him, we need him! Y'all need a pilot? Flight risk. Oh. You used a phrase earlier. I think it was exquisite attention. Yeah.

I want to come back to that because that's really what we're talking about here. It really is. It seems like, I'm curious, I'd love to hear more from you around this, that one of the things you were in search of or one of the skill sets that you had been cultivating was this sense of exquisite attention, like not looking for the next hit. Yeah, right. But saying like, this moment, this person, this conversation is the only hit. Yes, exactly it. I mean, and I'm, I mean, I have experienced myself how much suffering within myself comes from believing anything else. You know, the suffering of believing that, you know, this conversation I'm having with you right now isn't quite it. You know, or like there could be some other better conversation I could be having somewhere else. I mean, that's called suffering, you know? Or like, yeah, like you, Jonathan, like, you know,

there could be someone else who would be asking me better questions or we could be going deeper. What a hard thing to believe. Even as I'm saying it, I feel the pain of it, the violence basically of it. And just in little moments with myself too, like to be believing that, you know, whatever thought or emotion is arising that it's wrong in some way and that there might be something better out there. That just is like the definition for me of suffering. Unnecessary, hellish, fruitless suffering i mean there's there's suffering from which i think meaning and wisdom can arise but but there's this other kind that's just hell basically um and

not just my own personal hell but the violence against another as i was sort of saying like here with you like how what what a harsh thing uh what a what a hurtful thing to believe that that this moment and all of its constituent parts including the people who are a part of it aren't quite it you know i think that this whole it i think it speaks to fomo you know this this idea that's the exact like that's the phrase that is so sort of popular these days and it seems like it's so much how we live our lives, especially with, you know, everything always comes back to social media right now

because, you know, we're sort of comparison, you know, like driven beasts. So like, you know, as we sit here, so many of us have now become trained, you know, to seek the next dopamine hit, to see what better things might be happening outside of this moment, this conversation. And we're almost trained so that our default state is to fear not participating in something that just might be better. And how could that not be anything

but suffering? You described different types of walking. Break that down for me. Yeah, as I walked, I just, I began to realize that walking was so much more nuanced and intricate than this one catch-all term sort of suggested it was. You know, walking. What, just walking? I mean, the more I did it, you know, 20 miles a day, 25 miles a day, 15 miles a day, day after day after day, I realized, oh my God, there's so many different kinds of walking, you know, and they depend on the weather and the know, really it's, you know, the, so I would, I would, there's fear walking, there's hurt walking, there's high walking, float walking, weep walking, rage walking, you know, I just enjoyed sort of putting words to each one and sort of like defining it, but it's really no different than um you know the the

sort of fluctuations that any human being experiences throughout the course of a day yeah had you done the identical trip you had gotten yourself from moment to moment conversation to conversation place to place in a way other than walking or in a way other than being than your own physical mobilization like like if you were driving. Do you think it would have been a very different experience for you? Absolutely. Yeah. I mean, so the physical engagement with the world

that the walking enabled, I think was its own exploration of what it means to be me. Because a part of what it means to be me is to be in this body and to experience this body's capacity for both strength and pain. And, and it had a way of, of sort of thrusting me down into this embodied lived experience that, that is being human,

sort of easy to get caught up in the mind and abstract concepts and philosophies and opinions and, you know, and the walking had a way of, it's like, yeah, okay, there's all that, but then there's also this, you know, just the lived, completely thoughtless experience of being in a body and of being subject to the wind and the rain and the cold and the heat. And so the walking really connected me to some of the less pleasant aspects of what it means to be here. You know, it's like when it rains, I got wet. You know, when it was hot, I got burned and sweat a lot. And, you know, so it brought me home in that way.

And it also allowed me time to process in a non-mental kind of a way what had happened with people the night before or the day before. So I had some time to just like integrate some of this stuff into my body. And then the last thing I would say to that is that the walking I think was a kind of a statement to people. You know, when they heard that I had walked, it had a way of showing them that this is no bullshit. Like, I'm serious about this. I'm putting my life on the line for what we might experience together. And that meant a lot to a lot of people, not everyone. But I remember I had, I got to meet the first African-American mayor of Selma. He was a former mayor at that time,

and he took me out to dinner. He took me out to dinner and he shared with me all these stories and insights he had. And as he was driving me back to where he had picked me up, I said, you know, thank you so much. I can't, I can't really believe this. And it's almost like it's too much. Like, what did I do to deserve all this? And he said, you walked, you walked. You know, you cared, basically you cared enough to sacrifice for us. And not just for us, it was for me too. But you walked, you know. So I think if I had driven, it wouldn't have been a less valuable experience in any way. It just would have been a different experience.

And I think the walking had a way of speaking directly to people's hearts. Yeah, it's so interesting to see how it's like it served so many purposes, you know, allowing you a whole lot more time and solitude to process. Like the physicality of it, you know, it just, when you're processing emotion, thoughts, ideas, it's different when you're sitting versus like your body moving. It's just, it's a profoundly different experience. I think it gets into us very differently. And it's so interesting also to hear you share how you were perceived in a way as being like more serious, more quest-driven, more invested in a level that very likely opened people to maybe inviting

you in and maybe even being more real. They're like, this guy is, he's just walked 2000 miles through a lot of stuff to be here with me, you know, and he's asking me, tell me about yourself. Like the least I can do is be real too. Right. Whereas if you showed up in a car, it's like, hey, I got a microphone. I'm just, I'm collecting stories. I have to imagine it would be a really different conversation.

Yeah. Yeah, I was vulnerable. I think that's a big part of it. I was, and we all are really at all times, but I was really immersed in that vulnerability in a very obvious way that people recognized, like consciously or not. And I think my willingness to be vulnerable, even just by walking, but also in conversation, became an invitation for them to be vulnerable too. And a lot of them took me up on the invitation. Tell me that time, whether alone or with somebody where along this 4,000 miles sojourn, you removed tears. Many, many times. Yeah. It was almost like I was reclaiming my capacity to weep and to feel in that way, a capacity that was sort of stunted or suppressed by this narrative

that men aren't supposed to cry. Crazy, a crazy story and with tragic ramifications. So I was sort of reclaiming that ability just by being alone and having all that space and, you know, movement, as you were saying. And so there was one time where I was in Texas and the planes, you know, the panhandle, and this huge semi-truck pulled over at one point. And I thought it was just because it had to, I don't know, it had a problem or something and it kept walking. And then I heard on the wind, this guy's voice,

excuse me, sir, excuse me. And I looked back and the trucker had gotten out and he was walking toward me on this busy highway on the shoulder, big potbelly. And he was holding in his hand above his head, this Gatorade. And he had another one cradled like a baby in his other arm. Excuse me, sir. What are you doing? And I told him what I was doing. He goes, oh my God, here's some, here's some Gatorades. I thought, I thought you might need them. I've, you've been walking my route for the past week and I've seen you over and over again. And finally I saw you and was able to pull over and I can't believe you're doing this. And he just got so excited about what I was doing. And he said, do you like popcorn? I said, sure. He goes, come on, I'll give you some popcorn. He got into his,

we walked over to his truck cab, got into his truck and a big light, like human size teddy bear was buckled into the passenger seat. Just getting a little glimpse into who this man is, you know, and he pulled out this big sleeve of popcorn, gave it to me and said, well, you're going to be walking my route for the next week or so. And you can count on a cold drink every time I pass. And over the course of the next week, twice, he pulled over at gas stations ahead of me and said, hey, this kid's coming through. He's walking, get him whatever he wants. It's on me. The third time, so I hadn't seen him those times. And then the last time I saw him, he pulled over and got out and said, you're about to leave my route.

And so I know that you're about to head into the hottest part of your journey. It was summertime and I was going into New Mexico and the desert. And he said, I'm not, I'm not going to be, I'm not going to be there to support you. And so I went to Walmart and I got you, I got you this little cooler and he called, it was called a Bubba keg or whatever. And he was stoked about that. And he said, here's this cooler. So you can, you can still have a cold drink whenever you need it. We hugged and then he drove away. And at that time I was pushing my stuff in a baby stroller and I knelt down to lash the cooler to the baby stroller and burst into tears. Just imagining, feeling and receiving the kindness. You know, this guy had,

he had been thinking about me thinking, my God, okay, Andrew, here's this guy. I mean, that he had pulled over to begin with and then that he had done all these other things and then thought, my God, he's going to be going into this heat. How can I help him? He took time out of his day to get me a little cooler and then pulled over and just like to be supported in that way was so utterly humbling. And it's something I wonder about today. It's like, you know, each one of us is walking a walk

that's truly no less intense than mine was while I was walking across America. And that I needed the kind of support that I did suggests to me that we all do, because I'm no different than anyone else. And what would it be like if, you know, a complete stranger on the side of the road stopped you and said, hey, I just I see what you're doing with your podcast and your foundation. And I just want to say thank you for what you're doing. And, you know, here's a box of chocolates just just to let you know I'm here with you.

I mean, my God, what would that world look like if we were all showing up to each other in that way? That would be a different place for sure. Do you think it's fear that stops that? I mean, did you get a sense? Yeah, because you had this experience where so many people were astonishingly generous and at the same time you had a lot of people who said no. What was your sense of the why behind the no when it happened? Yeah. Were astonishingly generous. And at the same time, you had a lot of people who said no. Yeah.

What was your sense of the why behind the no when it happened? Well, I guess the most honest answer that I can give to that question would come from like investigating why I say no when I do. You know, I don't know why other people said no, but in my life, you know, when I see someone asking for help or intuit that they might need it in some way, you know, I think what keeps me from showing up to them in that way is this belief that, you know, I don't have the time to show up to them. I don't have maybe the money to show up to them. This feeling of scarcity, you know, that there might not be enough or that I have something better to do. You know, just getting caught up in a story

that there's something more important to be doing at that time. Sort of a similar like FOMO thing. It's like, okay, well, here's this opportunity to shake someone's hand or just look them in the eyes or show up to them in some even just small way. But there's some other moment right around the corner that needs me and makes it so that, you know, I have to leave this moment as soon as possible. You know, I also think it probably has something to do with like what you were saying, just fear. you know, the fear of, God, just intimacy, really, you know, the fear of, I mean, there's like, just the self absorption, but also the fear of, you know, I'm afraid to just look in your eyes, you know, and also to be seen. Because how might that change me? How might that change my understanding of myself and the way I move throughout the world?

Just like this attachment to a certain way of being. We don't like our own boats to be rocked. Right, right, man. Yeah, staying inside that beautiful box that we've drawn. So comfortable. This safe place. Yeah. When you finally get to the Pacific Coast, there's a beautiful moment as you wrap your walk.

Would you share that? Which one? When you're by the water. Yeah, sure. So two Navajo men who had met me at the end, or while I was walking through Navajo reservation, asked if they could help me finish the walk. And they, and I said, of course, and they drove out however many hundreds of miles it is to be there for me. And Chris and his brother Michael met me at Half Moon Bay where the sand began.

And Michael started drumming and singing, chanting, me, leading me. And Chris was sprinkling a path of corn pollen in front of me. And that's when I started weeping, you know, the sound of that and the support of that. And there was this big group of people waiting for me. And my father was there. My stepmother was there, and my mother was there. And friends and also strangers, random people who just happened to be at the beach on that day. And Chris and Michael led me out into the experience of being seen in my naked magnificence and in my vulnerability. I'm just, I'm sobbing right there in front of all these people, you know, and just held by these people.

Went around and embraced everyone and went down to the water where James, Chris and Michael's father, was waiting for me. And he instructed everyone to pour a little bit of sprinkling of cornmeal into my hands, which was their prayers, their hopes, their stories, their hurts. And I was to take that into the water. You know, this walk wasn't just for you, this walk was for us and there is a responsibility here to remember that that you weren't just walking for you and he said when you walked through our land we called you i called you boy who walks and now you have a new name and it's hastin niha nagahi man who walks for us and that's who walked into the water. And that's the name I'm trying to live up to every day, you know, to live in such a way that it's for us, not just for me, me, me, me, me, you know, like man who walks for us. And that's the invitation we all have to become. It's like

woman who walks for us. Well, again, how would the world be changed and transformed if we were all attempting to live in that way? And even in just the small ways that we've been talking about, you know, how would this moment change if I had the intention to serve in some way? Or if I were listening to the question, what's being asked of me here? Not what can I get from this, but what is being asked of me? And so that, I mean, that was the beautiful moment that I'm continuing to try to remember, you know, as best I can and, and try to live up to. And it's, it's a path that I'm finding is filled with failure, you know, but. And that, cause that, that is sort of one of my curiosities is when you move through something that is so intense, so deep, so transformative, that unfolds over a long period of time. And then you wake up the next morning and it's over.

So how do you live differently in the world? Can you carry, can you carry pieces of that with you in a way where the most important awakenings travel with you? Or does it, do you slowly sort of fade back into the pace of everyday life? You know, both.

You know, I think for me, that is the, that is the, that's that's the invitation is like can i remember that actually the walk didn't end it really didn't yeah sure the the the way in which i'm walking is different now i don't have a sign on my back that says walking to listen i do have you know bills to pay and obligations to show up to but but this moment is no less uh mysterious and extraordinary than the moments i was experiencing on my walk you know like like can i show up to you jonathan in the way i was showing up or trying to show up to people on this walk because you aren't any less worthy of that you know like we so the the nothing changed and the only thing that I think is like tempted to change is my own perception, my own perspective.

And so, for me, it's a practice. Every moment is, and it's an apprenticeship, it's work, you know, it's a labor to show up to others and to reality in that way. And I think it is more challenging in some ways now than it was on my walk. Because again, I don't have this sign that says I'm walking to listen and people don't see me in that way. But I think that's the sweet, juicy challenge. Like, can I continue to walk in that way and just be a living invitation for connection and for even for love you know without the sign and man it's hard and

it's it's frustrating i feel uh i mean every day it's like i see the the ways in which i struggle to do so and again again, having experienced what's possible with strangers and also with people I thought I knew, it does kind of hurt a little, you know, every time. Like even on the elevator ride up here, you know, there was a woman, one of your neighbors, I assume, who was, we were in the elevator together. I was like, this could be one of those moments. Like, can I. Like, what's a question that might spark even just a little thing? And man, I couldn't think of anything. I was just too tired.

I don't know. And it's New York. And it's New York. If you ask anyone anything, they're like, what do you want from me? Which is like a whole other conversation. But it's a good point to come full circle. So as we sit here, you know,

having a wonderful conversation in the name of this is good life project. So if I offer that phrase out to you to live a good life, what comes up? Hmm. Hmm. Yeah. It's such a good question. And I feel like good questions just like deserve as much space as I can give them. the course of our conversation is to trust, to live a good life, is to trust that this moment deserves my full attention and care and needs it too. You know, to believe that, you know,

one moment after the next, I, by which I mean my full presence, is needed in some way. Not in some weird narcissistic sort of thing, but just, I'm needed here. You know? And every part of me is needed. And so can I come home to myself, welcome all parts of myself to be present at this feast, at this party, this moment? And can I, I mean, to me, that's prayer. To me, that's what worship is. You know, to me, that's reverence.

To me, that's acknowledging that this is, I mean, a cosmic improbability. You know, to be just sitting, think of all the little things that had to happen over the course of time for you and me to be here right now in this exact way, an astonishing array of circumstances and you and I and we deserve. I'll just finish this with a little line from a hymn that I sing every once in a while. The first line is, forgive the song that falls so low beneath the gratitude I owe. It's like, God, when you start to think about all the things I could be, should be grateful for, I couldn't possibly sing a song that would live up to the heights of that gratitude. And yet I'm going to sing anyways, because I have to,

that's all I can do is sing my little song, you know? And so I think showing up to the here and now and everyone who's a part of that is what it means to live a good life. Thank you. Thank you, Jonathan. Thanks so much for listening to today's episode. If the stories and ideas in any way moved you, I would so appreciate if you would take just a few extra seconds for two quick things. One, if it's touched you in any way moved you, I would so appreciate if you would take just a few extra seconds for two quick things. One, if it's touched you in some way, if there's some idea or moment in the story

or in the conversation that you really feel like you would share with somebody else, that it would make a difference in somebody else's lives, take a moment and whatever app you're using, just share this episode with somebody who you think it'll make a difference for. Email it if that's the easiest thing, whatever is easiest for you. And then of course, if you're compelled, subscribe so that you can stay a part of this continuing experience. My greatest hope with this podcast is not just to produce moments and share stories and ideas that impact one person listening, but to let it create a conversation, to let it serve as a catalyst for the elevation of all of us together collectively,

because that's how we rise. When stories and ideas become conversations that lead to action, that's when real change happens. And I would love to invite you to participate on that level. Thank you so much as always for your intention, for your attention, for your heart. And I wish you only the best. I'm Jonathan Fields, signing off for Good Life Project. The Apple Watch Series 10 is here. It has the biggest display ever.

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The pilot's a hitman. I knew you were going to be fun. On January 24th. Tell me how to fly this thing. Mark Wahlberg. You know what the difference between me and you is? You're die don't shoot if we need them y'all need a pilot flight risk