TableofContents

CopyrightDedicationPrefaceSailAwayTheSamuraiOpeningPillarsRhythmWernerWhatisTruth?TechniqueChainSuccessAnchorsOneTrueThingResistanceThePointCommitmentFreedomTheCliffEffortDeeperRiseDailyPracticeThresholdAwakeWhyIWriteThreshold,AgainConfidenceHumanMomentsTheSecretWhyCreate?TheThingsICarryRiver

BehindYouConsciousHealingFulfilledLifeAfterGiftLoveAboutthisBookAbouttheAuthor

LiveYourTruth

Copyright©2013byKamalRavikant

ALLRIGHTSRESERVED

Forinformationaboutthistitle,pleasevisitwww.founderzen.com

CoverdesignbyErinTylerInteriordesignby1106Design

CoverphotographbyMacDanzigAuthorphotographbyJodiSwanson

ISBN:978-0-9895849-9-9(Print)978-0-9895849-4-4(eBooks)

PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica

ForWerner

PREFACE

Somewherealongtheway,youdoyourbest,andthenyousurrender.Letgo.Ofattachment to outcomes. Attachment towhat you desire. Like a paper lanternyoulightandthenreleaseintothenightsky.

Youdoyourbest,youletgo.

Itisnotpowerlessness.Itisfreedom.Likeyou’reinadarkroomandit’sbrightoutside. Surrendermeans cleaning thewindow so that light can enter.You’relettingthelightenter,notmakingitenter.

Itisnotgivingup,itisaccepting.Andthelightwillenter.Alwaysdoes.

Despitehowwemay rock theworld,wehaveourweakpoint.Thatone thingthatcanbringusdown.Forme,it’stheendoflove.IknowI’mnottheonlyone.

Iwrote thisbookoveraperiodof twomonthsafterapainfulbreakup.Ononehand, life was zipping. Things and opportunities I’d wanted for long werehappeningeasily.Ontheother,theAchilles’heel.

Iwasdoingmypractice,lovingmyself.Butthemindwasresisting,refusingtoletgo.SoIwrote.Nightafternight.Truesentenceafter truesentence. Iwroteformyself, tomyself.Ahandbook,aguide.RemindersofwhatIknowisreal,whatIknowthatworks.Soasthepainwentaway,Iwouldbeleftbehindwiththeserecordsoftruths.

Ifeverinpain,Ithinkthebestthingwecandoistocreatesomething.Arecord.Notofpain,butofwhatisreal.Paindoesn’tlast.Andwhenit’sgone,wehavesomethingtoshowforit.Growth.Andbecauseitisahumanexperience,itisofvalue.Somethingwecansharewithothers.

This book guidedme back tomy truth. Light naturally flowed in. I let go ofoutcomesandreturnedtoworkingonbeingmybestself.AndthatisthegreatestgiftIcanaskfor.

SAILAWAY

Livelongenoughandyoustarttoseepatternsinyourlife.Theseasonsandthestorms.Thewaythatthingsworkforyou,thewaythattheydon’t.

Inthewinterof2012,IspentthelastweekofDecemberatamonasteryinBigSur,highupinthehillsoverlookingthePacific.Notalking.Nointernetorcellphones.Thesoundofrainontheroofmycompanion.

Anewyearwascoming.Ratherthanresolutions,Iwantedtoapproachitfromaneffectiveplace.Aplaceofinnerknowing,oflessonslearned.ThedesirewastowritedownwhatIknowthatworks—whatmakesmehealthy,whatmakesmeproductive,what fulfillsme, thebasicsofwhatmakesmy lifezing—andthenliveit.

I’d written a little book that summer called Love Yourself Like Your LifeDependsOn It. Published it onAmazon, expecting to sell ten copies,max. Ittookoffandbecameasuccess.Wordofmouth,blogposts,tweets.Thebookhasalifeofitsown,spreadingaroundtheworld.

Ifanything,thebookwasagifttome.Itmademecrossathreshold,showedmethatmyvoicemattered.Sharingmytruthmattered.Mylifemattered.

Igotmanyemailsfromreaders,mostly thosewhoappliedwhatIwroteabout,howitimprovedtheirlives.Butthereweresomethathadadifficulttime.Theycouldn’tdotheloveyourselfthing.Somethingwasholdingthemback.

IthappenedtoafriendI’dsharedthepracticewith.Shetriedeverythingunderthesun—acceptingherself,trustingherself,likingherself—anythingbutlove.NomatterhowmuchIsharedwhathadworkedforme,shewouldn’tgothere.

When you have an answer and you see someone you love struggle with thequestion,itcandriveyoubatty.IcouldsharewhatIknew,butneverforceit.Sohowtogetherthere?

And here’s what I realized. Loving myself, that was my truth. Something I

discoveredfromwithinmyself.Andbecauseitcamefrominsideme,therewasnodenyingit.Icouldn’tforgetaboutit,rationalizeitaway.Ihadnochoicebuttoliveit.

Ihadtoguidehertofindherowntruth.Andshefoundmultiple.Lovingherself,beinganexample forherchildren, thegifts shewants toexpress to theworld.Her life, she tellsme, is vastly different than before. She’s taken risks,madechanges inhercareer,herhealth,andevenhowshe livesherdays.Thingsshehadn’tthoughtpossible,hopesthatshehadburiedaway.Amazingopportunitiessheneverexpectedarehappeningnaturally.Notsurprising.Thetruthisapartofherinwaysshecanneverhide.Shelivesit.Rocksit.

Intheend,wearehumanbeingswithhumanmindshavinghumanexperiences.No different from each other or thosewho came long before us. The scenerymightdiffer,butthebasicsstaythesame.Atruthyoulearnoraprocessyouusecanapplytoanyone.That’sthebeautyoflife.Theanswersarealwaysavailable.

Atthemonastery,Isetouttowritehowtobebetterontheoutside.Butasisthenatureofcreation,whatresultedwasfardifferent.Habitsandgoalsandsuccessare just details.The tipof a deep iceberg.Whatmatters is the foundation, thestillness below the surface. The truth inside. Living it, the rest is a naturalbyproduct.

I hope that this book inspires you to investigate yourself, discover your owntruth.Whensomethingcomesfromwithin,whenitisapartofyou,youhavenochoicebuttoliveit,toexpressit.That’swhenyoubecome,well,awesome.

There isonerule, though:onceyoudiscoveryour truth,youhave togoall in.Fully.Everysinglechip.

Thatiswhentheshifthappens.Asifthere’saforceinlifewaitingforustomakethedecision, tocommit, jumpoff thatcliff.Thenlifebreathesadeepsighandopensthegates,fillsthesails.

It’smagicaltoexperience.Iwishthatforyou.

THESAMURAI

Highway1leadingtothemonasteryisclosedduetostorms.Ratherthanathreeand ahalf hour trip, I drive almost sixhours throughback roads, switchbacksdeepinthehills,sharpcornersandturns,andoccasionalrockslides.

You’dthinkthatthiswouldbethebestwaytobepresent,tobeinthemoment.But themind is active.A friend I lost this year, the company I built for fouryearsand just shutdown.Memoriesofabreakupstill fresh.Thoughtscomingandgoing, patterns of thoughts, loops upon loops.Themindpauses to hit thebrakes,avoidadeer,thenreturnstothechatter.

Ireachthemonasteryandcheckintomycoldcementcottage.Technically, it’scalledamonk’scell,andis located inarowofsimilarcottageswhere therealmonkslive.Thereisabathroomsmallerthanmycar,analcoveformeditation,andacubbyfortheone-personbed.Aboutassimpleasitgets.

Iturnonthestoveforwarmth,unpack,andpulloutabookIbroughtwithme,The Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi, the greatest swordsman inJapanesehistory.

It’sabeautifulcopy.Hardback,calligraphy.Writtenintheseventeenthcenturyneartheendofhislife,it’sMusashi’scoreteachings.Ireadityearsagoandstillremember simple lines that, if applied to one’s life,would transformyou. It’sthatkindofbook.

Likemanyofhiscontemporaries,Musashiwasalsoatalentedpainter,sculptor,andpoet.Unlikehiscontemporaries,hewasself-taught.Everythingheknew,hehadlearnedhimself.Hiscraft,hardenedbybattle.Action,nottheory.

Themanfoughtmore thansixty individualmatchesand threemajorbattles. Ifanyonehashonedthemindtoserveinthemomentratherthandistract,itwouldbehim.So it’snot surprising thatwhile thebook isabout swordsmanshipandstrategy,it’salsoabouttheworkwithin.Abouteliminatingfear.

Throughoutthebook,attheendofeachsection,herepeatsonlyonephrase:You

shouldinvestigate this thoroughly.Ifyoucouldboilhis teachingsdowntoonething, that would be it. And I understand. Knowledge is never enough. Evenaction, if it’s just following a prescribed way, will never fully express yourpotential.But todive in, test each theoryout,kick the tires,keepwhatworks,discardtherest,addyourown—that’swheremagichappens.

I put the book down and stare out the window. The rain has stopped. I havesevendaystogoandalready, theworldseemssofaraway.Izipupmyjacketandgoouttoexplore.

OPENING

Latenight, sittingon awall at theouter edgeof themonastery.Feet danglingabovetheoceanfarbelow.Alowfoghugsthecoast.Theair,coldandcrisp.Themoonsobright,Ialmosthavetoshieldmyeyes.

I used to think that lovingmyselfwas an inside job. I still do. Themistake Imadewasthat if therewere lowpoints, I’d lovemyself throughthemalone.Itworkedmostofthetime.

ButI’velearnedthattoreachout,beopenandvulnerabletowhatIneed,almostlikeachild,thatislovingmyselftoo.Perhapsthesimplest,themosthonest,themostlovingthingIcandoformyself.

OnedayIdid.Mymindwassointentinlossafterthebreakup,sounwillingtoletgo,thatIgrabbedmyphoneoffmydeskandtextedafriend.

“I’mhurting.”

Shetextedrightback.“HowcanIhelp?”

Ididn’tletmyselfthink.Nosecond-guessing,notimeforfearstoerectwalls.

“Tellmethatyouloveme.TellmethatIamloved.”

ItwasiMessage,soIcouldseetheemptyspeechbubble.Apple’sserverstellingmethatshewastyping.

“Iloveyou.”

Istaredatthescreen.Speechbubbleappeared.Newtext.

“Youaresoloved.”

That’sallIneeded.Ihadnoidea.That’sallIneeded.

Iwalkaround,amaninthissociety,bigstrongadultmaskon.Seemingtohaveitalltogether.Sometimestrue.Sometimesfarfromit.Therearetimesthatevenmybestisn’tenough.Iwillstumble,Iwillfall.Andthosetimes,thebestthingIcandoisreachout tosomeonewhotrulylovesme,askthemforhelp, toholdouttheirhand.

Ithinkthateachofushasourownpersonalevolution.Itendtofigurethingsoutbymyself. Somy evolutionwould be to involve others, growwith them. Forsomeonewho’swiredtofigurethingsoutwithothers,theirevolutionwouldbetogowithinalone.Eitherway,weevolveandmeetinthemiddle.Comfortableinthesilencewithin,comfortablewithreachingout.

Idon’thavelifefiguredout.ButIsureamtryingmybest.IfIfall,tolearnfromitsothatwhenIrise,Ihavethegift—thelesson—thatIabsorbintomyselfandshare.

This lessonwas a hard one.But it’smovedme somuch further, created suchdeep and profound relationships, that I can’t imagine being another way.Sometimes, theonlyway toevolve is toopenourselves fully.Be raw,honest.Vulnerable.

That’s another thing I’ve learned. There is strength in this vulnerability, intearingdownthewalls.Peoplesenseitinyou.Theworldishungryforit.Andthegreatesthealing—foryou,forthosearoundyou—itcomesfromopening.Openingyourselfwide.Toyourhumanness,toyourfeelings.Andultimately,toyourself.

PILLARS

I’m inmy cottage, readingMusashi. The old bell rings, announcingVespers.Themonkslivestructureddays,prayersfourtimesspreadoutfrommorningtoevening,eachannouncedbythebell.

“Put this intoaction,”Musashisaysofhis teachings.“Surpass todaywhatyouwereyesterday.” I shut thebook,go standoutsideandbreathe in theevening.Therainstoppedatsunsetbutyoucanfeelithangingaround,readytoreturn.

Whatarethekeycomponentsofone’slife?Buckets,thatifyoufilldaily,evenifjustadrop,moveyouforwardandcreateprogress.Sothatwhoyou’llbemonthsfromtodaywillbevastlybetterinallthewaysthatcount.

James Altucher has his daily practice, four buckets to fill: mental, spiritual,physical,emotional.Accordingtohim,ifyoumeetthoseeachday,yourlifewillbetransformed.AndIbelievehim.Whenyousearchfortruthwithin,andthenyouseeitoutsideyourself,youknowinstinctivelyifitwillworkforyou.

A talented entrepreneur toldme the four categories that he works on: health,wealth, relationships, and self-expression. I believe that too. When you arehealthy,notlacking,havegreatrelationshipswiththosethatmatter,andexpresswhoyouare throughyourworkoryour familyoryourartorwhatever that isimportanttoyou,youaretrulyliving.

One thing I’ve learned:we don’t stumble accidentally into an amazing life. Ittakesdecision,acommitmenttoconsistentlyworkonourselves.ThebestonesIknow,likethetwoabove,theydoitdaily.Afocusedpractice.Theyfail,buttheypickthemselvesup,continueforward.Ifthereisanysecret,thatisit.Andovertime,thedaysblendintoalifethatamazestheworld.

RHYTHM

ItfeelslatebutI’mnottired.Outside,pitchdark.Thecottages,quiet.Icheckthetimeand it’sbarely ten.Lifeworksonadifferentscheduleat themonastery. Iputonlayers,goforawalk.

Ican’trememberthelast timeIsawsomanystars.Orheardsuchsilence.Butnotinmyhead.TheworldIleftbehindjusttwodaysagostillbouncesaroundmymind.Lotshappenedinthepastyear.Beginningsandendings,opportunitiesandgoodbyes.

“There is a rhythm to everything,” Musashi wrote. “To music, battle, evenmounting a horse. You cannot ignore it. Rhythm to being in harmony withothers,andarhythmtonotbeinginharmonywiththem.”

IfIcouldaddtoit:arhythmtobeinginharmonywithoneself.

Life happens. Series of events occur. Some I judge good, some I judge bad.SomeIwanttohavehappen,othersIdon’t.Thelatter,Iusuallyfightagainstinmymind,wishingtheyweren’tso.Theformer,Iwishformore.

Love,pain,fears,hopes,dreams,desires.Allarisefromthemind.We’restuckinourheads,walkingaround,relivingoldstoriesandpatternsandbeliefs.Theeverconstant humandrama. I don’t knowwhyour brains arewired thatway, theyjustare.

Butknowingthathelpsmeimmensely.Iknowthatregardlessofthesituationorwhatevertheexternalexperienceis,Ichoosewhotobeinthismoment.Ichoosewhat to feel in thismoment.Often it feels likewe’re on autopilot, but if youexamine your thoughts closely, you’ll know that not to be true. It is always achoice.

SoIworkhardonmyself tomakeconsciouschoicesmomentbymoment,daybyday.Itisapractice.Thereisarhythmtoit.Ifailoften.Ifailspectacularly.But there are times when I succeed and each moment of success is areinforcement, a new thought pattern I’m laying down. One that serves me,

makesmebetter,makesmewhoIwanttobe.

Here’swhathappens:whenIchangemymind,myworldchanges.Ifyouthinkaboutit,makessense.Whenyoursenseofselfandhappinesscomesfromwithinand isn’t a roller coaster ride dependent on others or circumstances, youapproachlifedifferently.Youmakebetterchoices.Youdrawtoyouthepeopleandsituationsthatmatter.Theothers,theyfallaway.

Alonepairofheadlightsweavesalongthehighwaybelow.Istop,watchthecaruntilitisoutofsight,thenstareupatthestars.

WhenIwasfiveyearsold, I spentayear livingwithmygrandmother inNewDelhi.Wewould spend the hot humid summer nights sleeping on the roof. Itwascommonpractice.Auntsandunclesandcousinswouldjoin,layingoutcotsandblanketsonthecement.They’dtalkandjokeandlaughandslowly,onebyone,wewouldgrowquietandthenitwasjustcricketsandtheoccasionalsoundofsomeoneonthestreet.

Thestars,Irememberthestars,howtheycoveredthesky.Eachnight,I’dtrytocountthem,thinkingthatifIreallytried,Icouldnumberthemall.Therewerealot, but not somany that a dedicated five-year old couldn’t tackle.And that’show I’d drift off to sleep.Counting stars, losing track, starting over, countingstars.

Never seemed to botherme though.Therewas a patience, a knowing that theexactnumberdidn’tmatter.WhatmatteredwasthatIsawthestars,onebyone,asIlayonmybackandexploredthesky.

Thesedays,livinginacity,it’srarethatIseeaskyfullofstars.Afewhereandthere, but that’s about it. On a night like tonight, when I’m away fromcivilizationandIseetheglitteringskyabove,ratherthancounting—Iknowit’simpossible and for some reason, that stops me now — I think of the lightreachingmyeyes.WhatI’mseeingexistedmillionsofyearsago.I’mlookingatthefarfarpast.

And out there, beyond the haze of theMilkyWay, galaxies and nebulas, andmoregalaxies,somany,ourrockjustaminorspeckofsandinthebeachoftheUniverse.WhenIthinkofthat,Ithinkofmyself,sotinyandbrief,andyet,whoIam,thepotentialofmesobigandvast.

Whether accidental or designed or a cosmic joke between green aliens, thehumanexperienceisanunbelievablyamazingone.Ourabilitytoloveandcreate—thatalonemakesthisentireexperimentworthwhile.

Momentslikethis,Ifeeltherhythmofmylife.Theupsanddowns,theintensebeautyofitall.Mylifeisapieceofmusic,andifIlookatitthatway,knowingthatpitchisacrucialcomponent,itnaturallycalmstheminddown.AndIcan’thelpbutbegratefulforit—forthiscrazyridethatIsomehowsignedupfor.

I may not be able to change someone. I may not be able to change acircumstance.ButIcanchangemyself,howIrespond,whoIambeing.Thatiswhereallthepowerresides.Inside.

Ashiverpassesthroughme.Iwrapmyhandsaroundmyself,rubmysleevesforwarmth.Somanystars.Foramoment, I’m tempted tocount themall. I smileandwalkbacktothecottage.

WERNER

My friend Werner passed away four months ago. I found out on Facebook,headingoutthedoortocatchaflight.Aquickmessagesomeonepostedonhiswall.He’dhadaheartattackatthegym.That’sit.Gone.

Iremembersittingonthatplane,openskythroughthewindow,processingthenews.Thehardestpart, I’llneverseehimagain.Thatclassic full laughofhis,howhealwayshadfunwhereverhewent,whateverhedid.If therewasaguywholivedlifeonhisterms,hewasit.

Tall,bald, thebiggestgrin.First aDJ inLondon, thenapromoter, thenakitesurfing instructor in the Caribbean, then a talented silversmith. Whatever hedecidedhewanted todo,whereverhedecidedhewanted to live,he justwentanddidit.

Ifthere’sadefinitionoffreedom,Ithinkit’sthis:livinglifeonyourterms.AndWernerwasthefreestmanI’veknown.Imisshimterribly.

Outside thecottage, rain. I closemyeyes, listen to it, and imaginehimsittingacrossfromme.

“I’msorry,man,”Isay.

“Ah,”hewaveshishandatme.Smiling.“Letitgo.”

We’rebothquietforalittlebit.

“ReachouttoSivonceinawhile,”hesays,“andIce.”Siv,hiswife.Ice,hisdog.

Rainpicksup,drumsontheroof.

He smiles, slow. “But they’ll be gone too.”Long pause. “Andyou.Life, it isquick.”

Lifeislong,achainofintertwiningmoments,loopingroundandround.Butlife

isshort.Blinks.Memories.Connections.Thenyou’regone.

Thetruth:IlivemydaysasifIwillliveforever.Puttingoffsomuch,expectingthere tobemore time, another chance. If I acceptedmymortality tomycore,neverknowingwhenthechainsnaps,thenhowwouldIlive?

Moreonmyterms.Afreeman.I’dwritemore,I’dlovemore,I’dlaughmore.

CanIsucceedatit, thiswayofliving?Idon’tknow.ButIwillremindmyselfdaily:Iammortal.Iwillfeelgratitudeforit.Foranotheropportunitytobehere,toliveandloveandhurtandplayandcreateandmakegoodandbaddecisions.Life.

Ihaveahunchthatmyjourney,howeverlongitplaysout,shallbebetterforit.

Thankyou,Werner.

WHATISTRUTH?

Perhapsbettertostartwithwhattruthisn’t.Itisnotexperience.Itisnotastoryor label or the kaleidoscope of our lives. It is never what we did or whatsomeonedidtous.

Incollege, Ihadabreakup thatdevastatedme.Myfirst love. Itwas theworstthingIcouldhaveimagined.Lookingback,it’soneofthebestthingsthateverhappenedtome.Therelationshipwaslongover,itwasmyinsecuritiesthatweredesperatelyhangingon.

Neitherthebreakupnormyinterpretationsofitovertimearereal.Theyarejustneuronsfiring,pathsacrosssynapticconnections.Thestoriesweweavetomakesenseofthisjourneyofours.

Whatwedoandexperience,thosearelikefireworksinthenightsky.Sometimespretty, sometimes scary, lots of booms and oohs and aahs. Flash, bang, gone.Nonelasting,nonereal.

What is real is the onewithinwhowatches these fireworks.The inner self, itknowstruth.

Truth doesn’t change. It is the real you, regardless of your life story.Truth iswhathealsyou,whatsavesyou.Truthmakesyourisetonewheights,nomatterwhereyouare.

Thethingis,we’rehumanbeingslivingourlives,doingthebestwecan.Noonedroppedusoffwithinstructionmanuals.No,if insituationX,fliptopage243and choose solutionY. Life is a series of choices and allwe can do ismakethem.

Sometimes we’ll choose ones that serve us, sometimes not. And when that

happens,it’sourdutytobegentlewithourselves.Wearehuman.Wewillmakemistakes. It’s the nature of our being. Sometimes we’ll look back at thosemistakesasthebestthingsweeverdid.That’salsopartofthecontract.

Thatiswhyit’scrucialforustofindourtruth,toownit.Yourtruthisthecorelesson.Theguidingstar.Knowingitwillnaturallyhelpyouwithyourdecisions,thepathsyouchoosetotake.That’sthepracticalapplicationofyourknowledge.

Andwhenlifeseemsoutofcontrol—youwillhaveafoundation,ananchortoreturnto.Tobestill.Toknowwhatisreal.

Themagicisthatasweliveourtruth,lifedoesseemtocalmdown,asifthat’sallitneededfromusanyway.Tobeourrealselves.

TECHNIQUE

Thebadnews:thereisnoonesimpletechniqueforfindingyourtruth.

Thegoodnews:thereisnoonesimpletechniqueforfindingyourtruth.

No twelve-step program.Or bulleted list. No seventeen new proven scientificways, auric healings, or quantum attunements for a limited time for $99.95.Thereisnotanappfortruth.

If any did exist, I’d be wary of them. The human condition is too vast andbeautifulforsuchthings.Instead,whatyouhaveisfreedom.

Ask yourself:what is it, that if I believed it down tomy core,would changeeverything? Make the fears irrelevant? Make the person I’d become sounbelievablyamazingthatI’dblowmyownsocksoff?

Answerthat,andyou’reonyourway.

Forme,itwaslovingmyself.Foronefriend,feelingworthy.Thattransformedhislife.Foranother,abundance.Opportunitiesliterallythrowthemselvesathim.Formany,I’veseenittobetheirfaith.

The only rule is that truthmust empower you,make you better in everywaypossible.That’sit.

You can pick it out of a book, a sermon, a movie, a conversation, a passingremark,athoughtwhilerunningonthebeach.Youcandiscoveritinthestillnesswithin.Allarevalid.Itisyourlife,yourexperience.Yourtruthmustfeelrightforyou.

Once you decide on it, the requirement is a commitment to live it fully. Nothope.Hopemaygetusoutofarut,butitwillnottransform.Onlyfierceaction,doing whatever it takes. Knowing that we will fall often, but we will pickourselvesup,moveforward,keepourcommitmenttoourselvesbecauseitisthemostimportantonethereis.

Thegoodnews:itgetseasierasyoudoit.

The bad news: you must continue to do it. Even when you don’t want to.Especiallythen.

CHAIN

Arecentmemory…

HardRockhotel, latenight,walkingback tomy room.Passphotosof famousmusicians,stopandstareatthemforawhile.KurtCobain.Youcanseethepaininhiseyes.Ilookatothers,similar.Doallartistshavetosuffer?

PartofmeresistswhenIaskthequestion.Idon’twanttheanswertobeyes.ButIletgo,andtheanswer,instead,isofadifferentsort.Theyhavetoexperience.Toliveandexperiencelifefullybecausewhenyoucreateart,ifit’snottrueandreal,youknow.

Hemingway,Cobain.Bothkilled themselves.Butwhat if theyhadn’t?What ifthey’d gone with the experience, whatever they were feeling, whatever theywere fighting, knowing that it too would pass, and left behind would be theknowledge,thegifttheycouldputintotheirart?

Withthewisdomofage,whatelsecouldHemingwayhavewritten?AndCobain,perhaps hemight be a poet today or even just another burned out rocker.Butwhateverhe’dcreated,aslongashestayedtruetohisexperience,itwouldhaveconnectedandchangedlives.Justthosetwo,whatcouldhavebeen…it’ssad,Iwillneverknow.

I’m old enough to have lost friends. Random deaths are tough. Suicides, theworst. I’ve also lived long enough to look back at those gone and know thatwhatever they were dealing with, it passed. They didn’t have to. They couldhavebeenhere,wiserandstrongerandbetter.

Nomatterhowsmartwemaythinkweare,nomatterhowcommittedwearetoour truth,wecan loseourway.We’rehuman.Madeof fleshand feelings,notarmor.Andknowingthat,thereissomethingwecandotoletinthelightwhenwe’refightingitthemost.

Settheegoaside.Reachout,shareyourtruth,tellsomeone,“ThisiswhoIam.ThisiswhatIstandfor.Holdmetoit.”Beaccountable.Often,we’lldofarmore

foranotherthanwewilldoforourselves.Usethattoyouradvantage.

Once,whilemeditating,Isawanimageofmyparentsstandinginfrontofme.Behind them, their parents. And their parents, and their parents, and theirparents. An unbroken line of lives so long that it faded into the horizon. Anunbrokenlineoflivesthatultimatelyledtomine.

ThenIthoughtofthosewhohavetouchedmylife.Minorandmajorways.AndallthelivesthatwerelivedsothatjustthesefewcouldexistandwalktheEarthwith me for a brief spark in time. Lines upon lines, connections uponconnections,ripplesspreadingacross timeandgenerations.Humanitydoingitsdancesothatyoucouldbehere,readingthesewordsIjustwrote.

Evenifwemayfeellikeitsometimes,weareneveralone.Iwritethis,expectingthatyouwillreadthesewords.Iwritethemwiththehopethattheywillimproveyourlife.Iamgivingyoumyall.Mytruth.Thatyouwillreaditisagifttome.Imay never meet you, but that’s ok. I smile, knowing that we are links in abeautifulchainconnectedinwaysdeeperthanwecanimagine.

Whatever you experience in your life, choose for it to make you grow inamazing and unbelievableways.You owe it to yourself.You owe it to thosewhocamebeforeyou.Youoweit to thoseconnected toyouwhoyou’llnevermeet.Youoweittothosewhohaveyettocomeintoyourlife.

SUCCESS

Ilovedmyself.Mycompanyfailed.Ilovedmyselfthroughit.Thereweretoughmoments,layingoffemployees,lookinginvestorsintheeye—manyofwhomwereclosefriends—andtellingthemthatIwassorry.Iwasbrokeandindebt.Ilovedmyselfthroughitall.

Itwasn’teasy.Lovingyourself,sometimesitispuppydogsandrainbows.Othertimes,it’snot.Andthat’swhenit’sneededthemost.Ilovedmyselfthroughthetoughmoments.

Here’swhat happened. I sat down andwrote a little book, sharing somethingfrom theheart.Put it out to theworld. It spreadwings, tookoff. Iwatched inwonderasitflew,developingalifeofitsown.Byallstandardmetrics,itbecameahit.

I receivedemailsdaily from readers thankingme,how it touched them, andafewtellingmeithadstoppedthemfromkillingthemselves.

Whoa.

Howdoyoutakeinsomethinglikethat?

Ifmycompanyhadnotfailed,thebookwouldnothavebeenwritten.Andifthebookhadnotbeenwritten,oneofthoselivesmighthavegone.

This experience has shattered my definition of success forever. How do youmeasuresavingahumanlife?

BeforeIgotsickandlearnedtolovemyself,Iplayedaroundwiththethoughtofsuicide.On the real tough dayswhen the companywas tanking, I’d sit in theoffice at night, working, staring at the Bay Bridge through the windows,fantasizingaboutjumpingoff.Itwasadeliciousthought.

AfterIlearnedtolovemyself,thosethoughtswentaway.Then,whenthebookcameout, tohear that itdid thesameforothers, that is thegift theygaveme.

Anditcontinued,openingdoors,creatingopportunitiesthatInevercouldhavepredicted.

Now I knowwhat success is: living your truth, sharing it.Whether through abook, raising a child, building a company, creating art, or a conversation.Whateverhumanendeavorwechoose,aslongasweliveourtruth,itissuccess.

The book changed my life. How do you measure that? And that’s what truesuccessdoes—itcomestoyouinwaysyounevercouldhaveplanned,inwaysyounevercouldmeasure,andleavesyoufeelinggrateful.Always.

ANCHORS

Ourmindsarecreaturesofhabit.Conditionedpatterns,loopsuponloops.Most,ironically,seeminglymindless.Most,nothelpful.

Thisiswhyananchorisapowerfultool.Itusesthenatureofthemind.Imaginemoments—evenifbrief—ofyourmindworkingforyou,ratherthanagainstyou.

ThatisthereasonwhyIlistentothesamemusicwhenImeditate.First,Ihavepositiveassociationstothispiece.AndeachtimeImeditate,itreturnsmetothatstate.Second, theminddrifts. Ihaveneverhadaperfectmeditationwhere themindwas still the entire time. But themind knows this music, its peaks andvalleys,andflowswithit.

Often,duringmeditation,asthemindwanders,it’sthemusicthatbringsitback.Reminds it that it’s time togodeep.Andsometimes,as themusic isending, Ifeelmymindpanicforamoment,realizingthatthemeditationisalmostover,soitjumpsallin.Naturallyshiftingitselftofinishthetaskitsetouttodo.

Most importantly, I repeatmy truth inmymind, “I lovemyself,” accepting itwitheachbreath.Thismeditativestate,it’sthesinglemostpowerfulwaytolaydown new pathways in our brain, new synaptic connections that serve us,nourishusfromtheinsideout.ItcreatesprogressfasterthananythingI’veeverexperienced.

I’vestartedanewanchoratthemonastery.Inthemornings,Iwalkoutsidewithmy coffee, sip slowly and take in deep breaths, making myself feel love formyself.Fivebreaths.Sipcoffee,lovemyself,feelit.

Injustafewdays,I’venoticedthatallIhavetodoisgooutsidewithmycoffeeandmymindnaturally shifts to love.NowI’mworking todo thiseach time Idrink coffee. Sip, feel love formyself. I’m alreadynoticing themind slippingintoloveformyselfnearthesmellofcoffee.

Isupposethismightmakemeacoffeeaddict,butreally,it’smymindbecoming

aloveaddict.Addictedtolovingitself.

It’sanaddictionI’mmorethanhappytoencourage.

ONETRUETHING

Hemingway,wheneverhewasstuck inhiswriting,would tellhimself towriteonetruething.Atruesentence.Then,hewouldwriteanother.Andanother.

ItisthebestruleI’veeverfoundforwriting.Writeatruesentence.Somethingthat is real for me. No showing off, no extrapolation, just a simple string ofwordsthatequalwhatIknowtobetrue.

Itcanapplytoanything.Anydecision,anyfear,anypointwherewearestuck.Sayonetruethingtoourselves.Andthenanother.Andanother.Thisdislodgesthemindunlikeanythingelse.

It’s not comfortable, mind you. Truth isn’t always. It requires facing fears,standinguptodragons.Theyareillusions—allfearis—buttheonlywaytoovercomethemistofacethem,saytoourselves:thisiswhatIknowtobetrue.Andlistit.

Idothissometimes.IfI’mstuck,unabletofigureoutorletgoofsomething,Isitdown and write a true sentence after true sentence after true sentence. Thebeginning is usuallymessy, as if you’re unclogging, but it starts to smoothen,andthetruthcomesout.WhateverI’mavoiding,whateverIdidn’twanttoadmitorwasafraidof,it’srightthere,staringatmeinmyownhandwriting.

Andthattakesawayitspower.Youfeellighter,youhaveletitout,anditturnsoutthatthedragonwasjustashadowofyourmind.

Thesimpleactofputtingyourtruthonpaper,onlyyouandyourthoughts,itisoneofthemostpowerfulexercisesyoucando.

RESISTANCE

ThePower of Now by Eckhart Tolle is one of those books you keep hearingabout.I’vereaditseveraltimes.Triedto,actually.Nevermadeittotheend.ThelasttimeIpickeditup,Ididn’tmakeitpastthefirsttenpages.Notbecauseofthecontent,butbecauseIreadsomething—twowords—that,ifapplied,werethekeytofreedom.

Hewasdescribinghistransformation,anightofintenseemotionalpain,andheheardavoiceinside,saying:“resistnothing.”

Resistnothing.LiketheTibetanmonkwhooncetoldmethathefoundpeacebysayingyestoallthathappened.Imethimagainyearslaterandremindedhimofwhathe’dsaid.Helaughed.

“Perhaps,”hesaid.“Itdoesfitwithmylifephilosophy.”

Hehadalightnesstohimthatisrare.Hislaugh,genuine.Ialmostexpectedhimtolevitate.

Ifyouthinkaboutit,howmuchtimedowespendinourheadswishingthingswere anotherway,beatingourselvesup,beatingothersup, craftingadifferentpast,wishingforadifferentfuture?Allofthatisresistance.Allofthatispain.

Peaceislettingitbe.Lettinglifeflow,lettingemotionsflowthroughyou.Ifyoudon’tfight them,theypassthroughquicklyandyoufeelbetter.I thinkwomenunderstandthisbetterthanmen.

Ioncetookameditationclasswhereastudentaskedtheteacherhowlonghehadtositwithhissufferingforittopass.Hesaidhe’dbeensittingwithitforoverthreeyears.

“That’s impossible,” the teacher said. “If you really sit with it, it will passthroughyouinminutes.”

Lookingback,Iunderstand.Insteadoflettingitflow,takinghimoverlikeatidal

wave that flipsyouaroundandaroundand finally spitsyououton thebeach,aliveanddazedandamazed,hewasresisting.

Peaceissayingtoyourself,“it’sok.”Peaceisknowingthatthemazethemindplaysinisnotthetruth.Peaceisknowingthatlifeis.Justis.Howwechoosetoreacttoitdeterminesourreality.

Thisisincrediblypractical.Noteasy,Iknow.ButeachtimeIdoit,freedom.

THEPOINT

There is something magical about creating. In my case, writing. You start,sometimeswithanideaofwhatwillcome.Perhaps justaword.Orasentenceringinginthebackofthehead.Othertimes,ablankmindgreetingablankpage.

Yousit.Youstareatthescreen,cursorblinking.Asanauthoroncesaid,youcutopenavein,bleed.Themoreyoudo it, themoreyouopenyourself, themoreyoutrusttheprocess.

Ithinkitisthiswaywithanythingthatcallstous,anythingthat’sworthdoing.Aswe trust theprocess,answers toquestions,deepones, thoseweneverevenknewwehadorwereafraidtoask,theycomenaturally.

I once heard that Einstein came upwith the theory of relativity by imagininghimself riding a beam of light. The image of him straddling a shimmeringphoton and flying through the cosmos, grinning full-on like a child, going“whee!”Itmademesmile.

Onenight,Isatdowntowrite.I’dbeenthinkingofsomeoneIloved,wonderingwhatit’dbeliketolovesodeeply,socompletely,thatyouseetheotherdowntotheir essence. You jump in, become a part of them. Love and galaxies andEinsteinflashedinmymind,soIwentwithit.

Idoveindeep,nopausing,nosittingbacktothink,noediting.Iwasn’tcraftingastory. Iwasexperiencing itand trying towritedownwhatwashappening inthemoment.

Wherethepiecetookme,Ididnotexpect.Intheprocesscameaquestion—thequestion—andwithoutpause,theanswer.Itwassosimple,sotrue.Butthat’sthegiftofanyart.Whenwegoallin,wefindtheanswers.They’reinus.

Icalledthepiece,“Iseeyou.”It’ssomethingIreturntooccasionally,remindingmyselfofwhatIfound.Hereitis—andIbelievethattheanswerappliestoyouaswell:

“I’vebeenthinkingaboutyou,”Isay.

“Me,”yousay,thecornersofyourlipswidening.Aslowdelicioussmile.“Whataboutme?”

“Youreyes.”

Iinchcloser.Youletme.Yourchestrisesagainstmine,fallstomybreath.

“Youreyes,”Isayagain,“thefrecklesandsparkles,sometimesIthinkthatifIstaretoolong,I’lllosemyself.”

Yourbreathdeepens.Ifeelitonmychin,hot.Eyelashesclosesoftly.Eyelashesopen.Ilookatyou,yourpupilsdilatedbigandopen,andsuddenlyI’mswirlingincolorssosoftandtender—hazel,brown,green—andthenI’minyouriris,itflashing bright and sounding a thump thump and me swimming, my handsparting theopticfluids,warmandsilky,and into the longtunnelofyouropticnerve.

It spirals like the barrel of a rifle, thunderclouds flashing and booming acrossneurons, kapow! kabam!— what do you see?What message rushes to yourbrain?—andcuriositygetsthebetterofmeasIswimtotheaxonoftheneuronclosesttome,amassofswirlingelectricityflashingacrossthebodyandtendrilsinaseaofdarkgreen.ThecellwallpartsasItouchit,smoothagainstmyskinasIenter,andclosesbehind.

Ifloatpastenzymesdoingtheircouplingdance.Alooseoxygenatomzingspastme. Iwave at it and continue toward the center. The nuclearmembrane foldsaroundme,tumblingmeroundandroundandwhenitletsgo,I’minsidestaringatgiganticchromosomescrisscrossingeachotherlikeskyscrapersinamadmadworld.

I kickwithmy heels, gainmomentum, shoot inside one, growing smaller andsmalleruntilIseethebeautifuldouble-helixandIstopinawe.

Everythingyoucouldbe,allthatyouare,yourpotential,allencodedinspiralingstaircasesofmolecules.Iwanttokisseachandeveryone.Whichoneexpressesitselfintoyourhair?Whichoneintoyourlaugh?

I float, growing smaller, feeling myself slowly drawn into your DNA, the

hydrogen bonds ticklingmy skin,making the hair onmy arms rise, and thenwhoosh, I’m moving fast, speeding past carbon atoms, still growing smaller,passingoxygenatoms,VanderWaalsforceszingingmearoundlikeapinball,and I’m tumbling tumbling falling falling, passing through thick fogs ofelectrons,feelingthechargedhumastheybuzzbyme,andthroughblackemptyspaceuntilIseeneutronsandprotons,glowingpurpleandvioletastheyspiralaround each other in lazy concentric circles and I slow, growing smaller.Photonswhizbyme,largeblueballs,andIwaituntiloneisnearmeandjumpon.

“Whee,”Ishoutoutasthephotonlazilycurvesthroughspace.Abrightlightfaraway grows larger.Neutrinos jump in and out of dimensions around us, littlesparkles,somespeedingpastthephotons,goingbackwardintime.

Thelightgrowsclose,aspiralinggalaxy,andIhearavoice,makingmealmostfalloffthephoton.IgraspontoittightlyandturntoseeGodridingaphotontomyleft.

“Beautiful,isn’tit?”heasksagain.

God really does have a long flowing beard, robes, the works. He catchesmestaringathissandals.

“Got’ematNordstrom,”hesays.

Inodidiotically.Hegrins,startstospeedtowardthelight,leavingmebehind.

“Wait,”Ishout.“Wait.”

HeslowsuntilI’malongside.Webothrideinsilence.

“Goahead,”hesaysgently.“Ask.”

Ilookathim,thegalaxyunfurlinginfrontofus.Starseverywhere.

“What’sthepoint,”Isay.“Ofeverything.What’sthepoint?”

Hesmiles.Neutrinospoparoundus,fizzle.

“Youare,”hesaysfinally.“Youarethepoint.”

Thenhekicksthesideofhisphotonlikeabullandspeedsoff.IwatchhimturnintoashootingstaruntilitarcsintothegalaxyinanexplosionoflightandthenI’mtumblingbackward,offmyphoton,fallingandfalling,neutronsandprotonsgrowinglarger,thenthehummingfogofelectronsflippingmearound,andthenyourDNA,yourchromosomes, through thenuclearmembrane, thecytoplasm,thecellwall, thunderstormsof sodiumandpotassium ions, and I’moutof thecell, spinning throughyouropticnerve,your iris,yourpupil,andback toyou,yourbreathwarmonmyface.

“Ilikehowyoudothat,”yousay.

“Dowhat?”

“Thewayyoulookatme.”Youbiteyourlip.“Ifeellikeyoureallyseeme.”

Ismile,holdyoutight.Wecloseoureyes.

COMMITMENT

ThemonasteryisBenedictine,anoldorderdatingbacktoItalyathousandyears.ThegiftshophasbooksbyMerton,thePope,theDalaiLama,Rumi.WeareinCalifornia.

I leave my cottage and stop in one afternoon, more just to be around otherhumans.Themonkbehindthecounter—andhelooksthepart:beard,robe,bald—helpsavisitorbuyafruitcake,ringsitupontheregister,andthenanswersthephone.

Heissmiling,voiceniceandgentle.Justasyou’dexpect.Cometothinkofit,Ihaven’trunintoanysurlymonks.I’msuretheyexist,justnothere.

I’m browsing, half-listening, and hear him say several times that “prayerwilltake care of it.” Casually, as if it’s the most natural thing. Like me tellingsomeone I’ll post a photo on Facebook. In my mind, Facebook is just aneverydayreality,nobigdeal.

Andwhoa,inhismind,prayeris.Thethoughtstopsme:heactuallybelievesthisstuff.

I’moftengladotherscan’thearthechatterinmyhead.Mymindcanberatheridioticsometimes.Ofcoursehebelievesit.Onedoesn’tshavehishead, takeavowofpovertyandcelibacy,andspendouthislifeinarobeonahalf-dare.

Heisatthismonastery,committedto,andlivingwhatheknowstobetrue.

If you ask people what they want, often you get the answer: “I want to behappy.” But happy is just a biochemical reaction. Neurons firing. Chemicalsmovingfromanaxontodendritetoanother.Lightningstormsofthemind.

Interestinglyenough,weoftenfeelthatsomethinghastohappenforustogiveourselves permission to be happy.A “when I hit this goal, I’ll be happy,” or“when Ihave this thingor thatpersonor that levelof success, I’ll behappy.”I’vedonesomuchofthis.Andlookingback,Ican’tthinkofalesseffectiveway

tobe.

I think perhaps a better thing to want is fulfillment. A deeper state, one thatcomes from within, from being your best self. From living life the way youreally wish to live it. Then, happiness emanates from within as a byproduct.Naturally.

Andhowdoesoneliveafulfilledlife?Bydecidingforthemselveswhatistrue—whether it’s love, faith,commitment to family,amission,whatever it is—andthenlivingit.EverypersonIadmirewho’ssuccessfulandradiatesaninnerhappiness,theyarelivingtheirtruth.

It’sthatsimple.Decidewhatyourtruthis.Thenliveit.

FREEDOM

Lunchlastmonthwithafriend.Cobbsalads,icedtea,baseballstadiumthroughtherestaurantwindows.He’dbeenonaroll.Ifyouweretocharthistrajectory—mental,physical, financial,social,all—his lastsixmonths looked like thegrowthcurvecompaniesdreamof.Upandtotheright.Noendinsight.

Theguyglowed.Literally.HejustgotbackfromthemountainsinUtahandhadthat I-had-an-awesome-sports-commercial-type-of-time look about him. I lovehavinghimasafriend,eachinteractionchallengesmetogohigher,showsmethepossibilities.Thisdaywasnodifferent.

I was telling him about the previous week — shutting my company down,dealingwithadisgruntledinvestor,myrelationshiptailspinning,missingWernerbadly—thenIlaunchedintohowIgotthroughit,howIneededtodeepenmypractice,andfinallymyplantogoofftoamonasteryinafewweekstogetquietandfigurethingsout.

Hesmiledandputahandonmyforearm,stoppingme.

“Howaboutthepain?”heasked.

“Bugsme,”Isaid.“Lastweek, therewasfear, itkeptcomingup.AndIknowbetter—that’swhatbugsme,butitstillcomesaround.”

Helaughed.“Youshouldknowbetter.Ofcourse.”

Bestthingsaboutclosefriends,theyshinethespotlightonthecracks.Icouldseewherehewasgoing,buthesurprisedme,takingaleap.

“Lifeisemotion,”hesaid,“lifeisfeeling.Ifyou’renotfeeling,you’redead.”Hepaused.“Sufferingisintheresistance.Whenweresistthemoment.”

Sufferingiswhenweresistthemoment.

Holycow,truth.

Allsufferingiswhenwesay“no,”whenwesay,“Iwantitanotherway,”whenthereisnosurrendertothepresent.

“Freedom,”hesaid, leaningbackandwideninghischestonpurpose,“iswhenwe fully open ourselves. To the moment. Experience the moment and let itpass.”

Iwantedtohugtheguy.Mymindhadbeeninresistancemodeallweek,beatingmyself up for feeling like I should know better. I found myself relaxing,rememberingmypractice.“It’sok,” I said to theworry, to thepain, “it’sok.”Acceptingit,asIwouldachildscaredbyfarawaythunder.Andimmediately,Ifeltmyselflighten.

Hesensedittoo.“See?”hesaid.“That’sallitis.Letitmovethroughyou.”

Wearefar farstronger thanourpain. Itcancomeinwaves,move throughus,spiceupourlife,butsuffering,thathappenswhenwefightit,shutthedoorsandholdoff,shouting,“No.Youshouldnotbehere.”

Thereisnoshould.Thereonlyis.Andwhenyouacceptthat,lettingtheemotionrise,thefeelingcrestandcrash,saytoit,“it’sok.Iacceptyou.”Evensaytoit,“Iloveyou.”Thereispowerthere.Thereisfreedom.

THECLIFF

Hollywoodisfullofbeautifulpeople.NewYorkisfullofdrivenpeople.SiliconValley,whereIam,isfullofsmartpeople.Nomatterhowintelligentyouwereinyourcorneroftheworld,youwillfindindividualsherefarsmarterthanyoubuilding companies, coding, slipping you term sheets between drinks. If youwanttostretchyourintellect,thisisagreatplacetobe.

I once asked one of the best entrepreneurs in the Valley how he did it. He’screatedgame-changingcompaniesmultipletimes.Hesortoflaughed,thensaid,“if I only stuck with what I was qualified for, I’d be pushing a broomsomewhere.”

Thatsentimentisnotuncommon.Thebestpeople,they’reafraid,theyquestionthemselves.Many, if you corner them,will admit that theywonder if they’regood enough.Butwhat separates them from the rest is that they jumpoff thecliffanyway.Sproutwingsonthewaydown.

It’stheknowledge—orconfidenceorhopeorsheerstupidity;theworddoesn’tmatter—thattheywillfigureitout.That’sit.Theonlyqualificationyouneedtocreateanything.

First,thedesire.Next,thebeliefthatyou’llfigureitoutasyougoalong.That’swhatittakestomakethejump.Evenifyouhavetofakeit,that’sfine.

Besides,here’sthesimpletruth.Theonethatmakesgreatthingshappen.Onceyou’reoffthecliffandgravityhastakenover,youwon’thavemuchofachoice.

EFFORT

IfthereisonelessonI’velearnedfromfailureandsuccess,it’sthis.Iamnottheoutcome.Iamnevertheresult.Iamonlytheeffort.

Whenmylastcompanywentdown,Icrashedalongwithit.Myhealth,mystateofmind,everything.Mycompanyfailed.Butinmymind,Ifailed.Iletdownmyteam,investors,everyonewhoeverbelievedinmycrazyidea.

Let’sstepbackforamoment.Isthattrue?

Formore than threeyears, Iworkednon-stop, firstwithan idea, thenwithco-founders who came and went, each time pulling the company forward, neverlettingitcrash,pouringallmysavingsintoit.Sevendaysaweek,andifIwasn’tat my desk, I was thinking about work. Nonstop. Not one vacation. Not oneweekendoff.

The company grew, we closed partnerships, grew revenues. Holy cow, realmoney!A sales graph of up and to the right. Investors jumped in, seeing thepotentialthatI’ddreamtofyearsago.Iwasclosetotellingpeoplethatwewere“killingit,”andthen…

Itblewup.Bothenginesout,flameon.

AsaCEO,your job is tomakedecisions.Steer the ship, icebergsbedamned.Right or wrong is a gift of hindsight, and even then there are biases. Thecompanyfailed.Thatwastheoutcome.AndI,withmysenseofselfattachedtotheresult,believedthatI’dfailedaswell.

In the thick of it, I failed to see the bigger picture. I had to fall to realize animportant lesson,one that Iwill carrywithme inwhatever Ido: I amnot theoutcome.Nooneis.Iammyeffort,whatIputonthetable.That’sit.

Outcomesaredependentonforcesfaroutsideourcontrol.Marketdynamics,thepriceofteainChina,theCEOofGooglewakinguponemorningwithanitchtoscratchinyourvertical.ButterfliesflutteringinJapan,tsunamisoffthecoastof

Africa.

What if thisbookdoesn’tdoaswellas the lastone?What if it flops?Doesn’tmatter.WhatmattersisthatI’mgivingiteverythingIhave.Myall.Everysingleword. I am better for it, and therefore, I believe that youwho read itwill bebetterforit.

Successandfailurecomeandgobutdon’tletthemdefineyou.It’swhoyouarethatmatters.Andiftheoutcomedoesn’tmatchyourdesire,youwon’tcrashinthe process. Instead, you’ll walk away with the lessons learned and go on tocreate far greater things.Each time, giving your effort.Each time, being yourtrueself.

DEEPER

LouisCKismyfavoritecomedian.Hetakesrisks,goesinsidetouncomfortableplaces inwaysmostofusneverdo.And that’swhatmakeshimsogood.Hishonesty,hisrawtruths.

ThereisapopularonlinevideoofhimpayingtributetothelateGeorgeCarlin.Veryworthwatching.Init,hetalksabouthisearlystandupcareer,themiseryofit.He’dbeendoingthesameroutine,thesameexacthourofcomedy,forfifteenyears.Hehatedit.

“IwasworkingatplaceslikeChineserestaurants,”hesays.“Theydidn’twanttohearme,theywantedtoeat.”

OnenightafterashowinBoston,hewasinhiscar,feelinglikeitwasallabigmistake,thathewasn’tgoodenough.HeputonaCDofCarlintalkingaboutthecraft of comedy. What amazed Louis was how Carlin put out a new specialeveryyear,anewalbum,eachonedeeperthantheprevious.

“Howcouldhedothat?”Louissays.“ItmademeliterallycrythatIcouldneverdothat—I’dbeentellingthesamejokesforfifteenyears.”

Asifoncue,theintervieweraskedGeorgehowhecreatedallthisnewmaterial.Louisalmostshook.Heleanedinclose.

“I hear him,”Louis says, “and he says, ‘well I just decided every year I’d beworkingonthatyear’sspecialandIdothespecialandthenI’djustchuckoutthematerial.AndI’dstartagainwithnothing.’”

ThelookonLouis’faceispriceless.

“AndIthought:that’scrazy!Howdoyouthrowaway…tookmefifteenyearstobuildthishour.IfIthrowitaway,I’vegotnothing.”

Alongpause.

“Buthegaveme thecourage to try.This idea thatyou throweverythingawayandstartagain.”

Withnoroutinetofallbackon,hehadtodiginside.Hestartedtalkingabouthisfeelings.Andwhohewas.

“Andthenyoudothosejokes,”hesays,“andthenthey’regone.Yougottadigdeeper,andyoustartthinkingaboutyourfearsandnightmaresanddoingjokesaboutthat.Andthenthey’regone.”

Hedugwithin,layerafterlayerafterlayer.Whathereallywantedtosaybutwasafraid to.At the time, hewas a new father and having a tough time at it. Sothat’swhathestartedtalkingabout,nofilter.

“Whoa,”hesays.“Iwassomewherenewnow.”

Theoriginalreactionfromtheaudiencewasshockedlaughter.

“ButI’dratherhavethat,”Louissays,“thanthetepidlaughterfrommyfifteenyearoldjokes.SoIstartedgoingdownthisroad.”

Fast forward. New specials every year, completely new material, each onedeeperanddeeper,relevanttowhoheisatthatpointinlife.

Here’ssomethingI’velearnedabouttruth.Whenyoufirstdiscoverandliveit,ittransformsyourlife.Innouncertainways.Butitdoesn’tendthere.Youcannotstayatthesamelevelaswhenyoufirstpracticedyourtruth,lifewon’tletyou.

Life is entropy. A beautiful chaos. But with rhythm, underpinnings ofclockwork.Almostasifdesignedtopushyoutothenextstageofyourgrowth.

Magichappens,expectit.Butchallengescome.Andwhenthathappens,it’snotthat your truth failed you or you it. Far from it. This is part of your personalevolution—youneedtocommitmore,youneedtogodeeper.

Whateveregoyou’vedeveloped, lookhardat it.Youwill findaspects thatnolongerserveyou.Stripawaythelayers.Bevulnerable.Beopen.

Isthishard?Depends.Ifyoufightit,yes.Ifyouseeitforwhatitisanduseitconsciouslyforyourgrowth,youwillendupinplacesthatwillastoundyou.

EachtimeI’vefoughtit,I’vesuffered.ButwhenI’veletgoandlookedinsidetowhoIam,howIcanbebetter,usingmy truthasaguide, it’s takenme to thenextlevel.Alevelofamazinggrowthinsuchshorttimethatitblowsmymind.Andmylifeandfinancesandrelationshipsshowtheresults.

Ifyoucan,makeconsciousperiodiccommitmentstodivedeeperintoyourtruth,intolivingitfiercely.Butifyougetlazyandslideforawhile,don’tworry.Thegearsarewinding.Lifewillkickin,makeyoustepup.

Andwhenyou’restandingatnewheights,checkingouttheview,you’llbegladthatitdid.

RISE

The greatest achievement of humanity is the human spirit. The ability to risebeyond our circumstances, to find hope in the midst of suffering, to love sodeeplythatittransformsentiresocieties.

Gandhi,King Jr.,Mandela. The thing thatmade them powerfulwas that theyknewtheir truth. Itgave thempurpose,avision forchange thathad tohappenandtheylivedit.

Whenweworkonourselves,onknowingwhoweare,whatwestandfor,whatisreal—ourtruth—wehavenochoicebuttoliveit.Andinthatprocess,wewilllivethegreatestversionofourselves.

YouandI,wemaynot transformsocietiesorchange theworld.Ormaybewewill.Nowaytoforecasttherippleeffectsofourlives.That’slikeaskinganantonEarthtodescribehowtheplanetlooksfromouterspace.

This,Iknowtobetrue:theeffectsourliveshave,theyarefargreateranddeeperthanwecanimagine.Wematter,ourlivesmatter.Whenweliveourbestselves,wearebetterforit,theworldisbetterforit.Itisthatsimple.

DAILYPRACTICE

Thereisnointernetat themonastery.Zerocellreception.Anexperienceofnoelectronicself.Idon’tknowhowelsetodescribeit,butmymindfeelssharper.

IfthereisapieceofthewebIcouldhavebroughtwithme,itwouldbeJamesAltucher’sDailyPracticepost.IalmostbelievetheInternetwascreatedsothathecouldwriteit.Hetitledit,“Howtobetheluckiestguyontheplanetinfoureasysteps.”It is themostgenuine,helpful,andpracticalblogpostIhaveeverread.

Whatmakesitsopowerfulisthatit’shistruth,somethingthatcameafterhittingbottomagainandagain.Itcamefromwithin.Applyingittransformedhislife.

AndJameslivesit.He’stherealdeal.It’sobviouswhenyoumeethimorhearhimspeak.He’sgotthatinnerfire,thatspark,thatabilitytoconsistentlycreatemagicinhislifethatsomanywant.Andinthatpost,he’slaidoutexactlywhathedoestobethisway.Itworks.

Onethingaboutdiscoveringatruth:firstyouliveit,andafteryouexperiencethetransformative results, it is real foryouunlike anythingelse.Thenyoualmostbecomeobsessiveaboutsharingit.Ithinkthat’swhypeoplewhodiscoverGodoryogaorevenanewdiet—awaytobetterthemselves—proselytize.It’safundamentalhumandesiretosharewhatworks.Andthat’sgood.Itpropelsideasandovertime,movessocietyforward.

EachtimeJamesmentionshisdailypractice,whetherinanewbookoratweetorapost,itmakesmehappy.Itisthebiggestpublicserviceonecando—showothers exactly how to transform themselves, make their lives better. Becausewhenwearebetter,thosearoundusarebetter.Rippleeffects,fargreaterthanwecanforesee.

Bookmark that post, read it once a week. Do the practice. Your life will beamazing.

THRESHOLD

I like to joke that if Iknewhowwell thefirstbookwouldhavedone, Iwouldstill be writing it. Perfecting it. Like most jokes, it holds an uncomfortableamountoftruth.

Instead,IwrotethetypeofbookthatIwouldwanttoread.Importantly,abookIwishsomeonehadgivenmewhenIwasdown.Abookthatwouldhavehelpedme.ThenIputitouttotheworld.

That last step, the crucial one, is where I’ve seenmany talented people stop.They’reworking away, gatheringmore data, improving their product, lookingfor that investorwhojustgets it, searchingfor theperfecthire.Everythingbuthitthesubmitbutton.Openthedoors,contactthepress,announcethecompany.CrosswhatIcallthethreshold.

Onceyoucrossthethreshold,youwillneverbethesame.Thatisafact.

Creating anything that never existed before is not sanity. Sanity is lockingyourselfinaboxandbeingfedthreetimesaday.Creatingisnotsafe,itisnotrisk free. It is putting yourself fully into something that theworldwill judge.Thatismadness.

Thresholdiswherethemadnessendsandthemagicbegins.

Weallhaveunfulfilleddreamsandgoalsanddesires.Unfulfilled,why?Reasonspopup,but they’re justguises for fear.Fear thatwe’renotgoodenough.Fearthatwe’llfail.Fearthatourfearswillbetrue.Whatevertherationalizationis,itisfear.Andfearisnotthetruth.

The truth is that we are mortal, that our time is limited.Wemust reach intoourselvesanddoit.Weneeditmorethananyone.Andthegiftwereceiveisthepersonwebecomeintheprocess.

I think thegreatestmoments inour lives, thedefiningones, theyarewhenwecrossthisthreshold.Takethatrisk,makethatcommitment,flingopenthedoor.

Thosearethemomentswelookbackatandremember.Themomentsthatmakeuswhoweare.Therestoflifeisjustscenerypassingbyatbreakneckspeed.Butcrossingthresholds,thosearethecrucialplotturnsinthemovieofourlife.

Thatmakestherideathrillingonetobeon.

AWAKE

In the movie, Fight Club, Brad Pitt takes Ed Norton to a small conveniencestore. Outside, he pulls out a revolver. He is Tyler Durden, the charismaticleaderwhostartedtheirmovement.Fearless.

“Whoa,whoa,whoa.”Edisterrifiedbytherevolver.Triestostophim,endsupfollowinghiminside.

Cuttobackofstore.Tylerdragsoutaloneterrifiedemployee,makeshimkneel.Standsbehindhim,cockstherevolver.Edtriestotalkhimoutofit,isbrushedaside.

Whoevercasttheemployeewentalloutonthestereotype.Chubby,Asian,neathair, in his twenties, blubbering over himself. Tyler takes his wallet, flipsthroughit.

“Youaregoingtodie,”Tylersays.

Theemployeewhimpers,cries.

TylerpullsoutanexpiredcommunitycollegeIDfromhiswallet.

“What’dyoustudy?”

“S…s…s…stuff.”

“Stuff?Were themidtermshard?”Tylerslapshimwith thegun.“Iaskedyou,whatdidyoustudy?”

“Biology,mostly.”

“Why?”Tylerasks.“Whatdidyouwanttobe?Thequestion:whatdidyouwanttobe?”

“Veterinarian!”

“Sothatmeansyouneedtogetmoreschooling.”

Handsbehindhishead,theemployee:“Too…toomuchschool.”

“Wouldyouratherbedead?”Tylerasks.

“No,”theemployeesays.“Please,no.”

Tylerputsthegunaway.

“I’mkeepingyourlicense,”hesays.“Goingtocheckinonyou.Iknowwhereyou live. If you’re not on yourway to becoming a veterinarian in sixweeks,you’llbedead.Now,getup,runonhome.”

Theemployeerunsaway,stumbling,feareverywhere.Watchingit,Irememberthinking,thatguycanact.

Edisbesidehimself.“That’swasn’tfunny!Whatwasthepointofthat?”

Tylerbreathes,smiles.“Tomorrowwillbethebestdayofhislife,”hesays.“HisbreakfastwilltastebetterthananymealyouandIhaveevertasted.”

He hands Ed the revolver, walks away. Ed opens the chamber, peers throughwherethebulletsaresupposedtobe.Empty.

I think one of the reasons we watch movies is that we instinctually imagineourselves as themain character, the hero.Theonewith the secret power.Theonewhoovercomestheobstacle,getsthegirl,ridesoffintothesunset.WeareTyler.

The truth is, we’re that poor sad blubbering employee. Living asleep, goingthrough themotions,punching theclock.And thenanearmiss, adiagnosis, alovedonegone.KickedawakebyTyler.Kickedawakebylife.

Thingssuddenlyaresharper.Thequestionis—andthiscreatestherestofthestory— how long does it last?Do you take that risk, keep that promise youmade to yourself that one night under the stars when you were really reallyhappy?Doyougoallout?

Ordoyoufallasleeponceagainandifyou’relucky,Tylerwillcomeknocking.

WHYIWRITE

Hemingwaysaidthatyouwritefortheoneyoulove.Thelastbookwasfromaplace of giving, written for a dear friend, something that I knewwould help.Honestly, up until I hit publish, Iwas on the fence about putting it out to theworld.

Ionceheardthatweallwantgoodjudgment,andgoodjudgmentistheresultofexperience,andexperienceis theresultofbadjudgment.Thatmademelaugh.Inthatcase,Ithought,bynowImustbethekingofgoodjudgment.

Isometimesthinkofmypastself,thechildgrowingtothemanI’vebecome.Hedoesn’texistanymoreexceptinmyimagination.MemoriesarisingwhenIleastexpectthem.Sometimes,IcatchaglimpseofhimandIfeelsuchafondness.Iwish I could spare him the pain I knowhe’ll experience.But I also know thelovehewillexperience.Theamazingthingshe’llsee,theadventureshe’llhave.

At thesame time, I,whohasexperiencedall thathewill, I sooftenforget thelessons.SoIwriteforhim.Aguide,perhaps,tothefuture.Totheselfthatwillonedaylookbackandnod,knowing.

AfterHemingwayfinishedTheOldManandtheSea,thebookforwhichhewontheNobel,he tookthemanuscript tohiswife.Shereadit, thensaid tohim,“Iforgiveyouforeverything.”

The act of goingwithin, finding our truth, and then sharing it, it helps us farmorethanweknow.Becausewhenyoufindthatgiftandexpressittotheworld,itisbetter,youarebetter.It’sjustthewaythingsare.

That is why I write. To share with the ones I love, to share with myself, torememberandlivethelessons,tomakefewermistakes—oratleastbetterones.Aguide forme to return toandapplybecause IknowthatwhenIdo,my lifeflowsnaturally,thingseasilyresolvethemselves.Thestruggleceasesandmagicbegins.

THRESHOLD,AGAIN

Onemore point about the last book. I crossed the threshold, yes. But I did itkickingandscreaming, leavingdroolandnailmarkson the floor.Notaprettysight.

Thatbookexistsbecauseoffriends,thoseI’dsharedsnippetsofwritingwith.Ithelpedthemandtheywantedthisknowledgeoutintheworld.Onecheckedinonmedaily,makingsureIwaswriting.Anothercreatedthecover,waitingforthebooktobepublished.AfterIfinishedwritingandediting,Isatonit.Weekspassed.Amonth.ThefearsofwhatotherswouldthinkaboutmeifIpublisheditwerestrong.

Then James Altucher, who had become a close friend and encouragedme towrite,scheduledapostonhispopularblogaboutthebookandletmeknowthedate.HeknewmewellenoughbythispointtounderstandthattherewasnowayIwouldlethimdown.Iwouldpublish.

Icannotemphasizeenoughthequalityofthoseyousurroundyourselfwith.

TherewereothersIcouldhavesharedthemanuscriptwith.OnesIknowwouldnothavebeenassupportive.Friendsinotherpartsofmylife,yes,butarisklikethisone,theywouldhavetalkedmeoutofit.

Creatingsomethingofvalue,expressingyourselftotheworld—itisrisk.Loveisrisk.Andlikelove,itisoftenfoolish.Madnesseven.Andlikelove,itcreatessomeofthemostmeaningfulandfulfilledmomentsofourlives.

Ifyou’reabouttotakearisk—onethatcomesfromwithin,onethatexpressesyourtruenature,thatbringsupfearafterfearafterfear—youknowwhattodo.One: do thework, create the value.Two: draw the people that encourageyoucloser.They’retheonlyonesthatmatter.

Othersmayapplaudyouafter thefactorpullyouasideonedayatapartyandconfidethattheynevercouldhavedonewhatyoudid.Yourjobistosmileandremember theoneswhohelpedmake it happen.We’rehuman.We flourish intribes.Oddsare,you’llneedthemagain.

If you’re reading this book, it means that I crossed another threshold. Faceddownmorefears,hitsubmit.Lessdrool,fewernailmarks.

Thelessonfromcrossingasecondtime:itgetseasier.

CONFIDENCE

Confidence comes from crossing thresholds. That’s it. Once you’ve donesomething,madethatjump,andevenifitdidn’tturnoutthewayyouthoughtitwould,you’velivedandfacedfearsandareheretotellthetale.

Ifeelitinwritingthisbook.Iknowmywordsmatter.Puttingthefirstbookoutto theworldshowedme that.What Iwritenow,Iquestion less. Instead, I justfocusonmakingittrue,knowingthatisallIamrequiredtodo.

Whateverareayouwanttoincreaseconfidenceinyourlife,crossthethreshold.Doitagainandagainuntilitisyournorm.

Thenseekoutotherthresholds.

HUMAN

Mealsat themonasteryaresimple:salad,pasta,soup,freshlybakedbread.Alllaidoutinthesmallcommunalkitchen,theideabeingtotakeyourfoodbacktoyourcottageandeatinsilence.

Oneafternoon,Ibreakconventionandeatlunchinthekitchen,stareoutthroughthewindow towhere the hills slopedown into brush.Thoughts come andgo,memoriesuponmemories.Ifindmyselfthinkingofmyfather.

Ididnotlikehim.ThememoriesIhaveofhimwereofanangryman.Whenhedied,itthrewmyworldoff.This,Ididnotexpect.

Eventhat lastnight in thehospitalwithhim,whentherewasnothingleftafterthe cancerbut ahollowed shell, Iwas afraid to reachout, to touchhim.Lovehim.Fearisapowerfulthing.

After his death, I could not let go of him, thememories. So I didwhat camenaturally,Iranawayfromthem.Ibackpackedinforeigncountries,notspeakingthelanguage,spendingdaysupondaysinwilderness.

Butmemoriesarefasterthanyou.Emotions,asyoupushthemdown,popupoutofnewcrevasses,fasterthanyoucanhammeratthem.

Asimplerealizationfreedme,mostly.Causedtherockstoloosen,startrollingdown.This: hewas human. Fallible, full ofmistakes, trying tomake hiswaythroughtheworldliketherestofus,afraid.Human.

Forgiveness, the key to freedom, followed naturally. I could no longer judgehim.Hedidwhathecouldandhewasgone.

Anotherrealizationfollowed.Thisone,makingtherocksdisappear.Itdidn’tjustfreeme,itmadetheconceptoffreedomunnecessary.

This…

Iamhuman.

HereIam,fallible,judginganotherfalliblebeingthroughthelensesofthepast,throughfear.IthoughtIhadtoforgivemyfathertobefree.Turnsout,Ihadtoforgivemyself.Ifyoucometoitthatway,forgivenessforothersisnotjusteasy,it’sawayofbeing.

Ithinkoftenwetrytosavetheworld,toloveothers,toforgivethem.Wethinkit’sothersthatweneedtodosomethingto,somethingfor.Theironyis,it’sallapaththatultimatelybringsustotheonewhoneedsitthemost—ourselves.

Myhope is thatwith thisknowledge, I startwithmyself first.Alwaysmyself.Then,thevirtueflowsnaturallyfromtheinsideout.

MOMENTS

Whenyou’releaningintokisssomeoneyoureallyreallylikeforthefirsttime,themoment is long.Whenabsorbed ina task, short.Momentbymoment,ourlivesareshaped.

Icanlookatthepastregretfully,fondly,wistfully,withasmany“lys”asIwant,but there is no power there, no truth. Only interpretations for the mind tomonkeywith.Rather,theonlytruthisthemomentI’min,thismoment,howeverlongitis.AndthenitisthepastandI’montothismoment.

Momenttomomenttomoment.Iwon’tsucceedmostofthetime,thegravityofthemindisstrong,butwheneverIrememberthetruth,I’mcreatingsomethingbeautiful.Amomentwhere I’m present,where I’m lovingmyself, nourishingmyself.

The irony is that by taking care of myself in this moment, I’m creating abeautifulpastformyselfasthemomenthasalreadypassed.

THESECRET

Thereisasecret.Tolife,tolove,tolivingyourtruth,tosuccessinanything.

It’ssimpletoo.Andinitssimplicityliesitspower,itseffectiveness.Anyonecandoit.

Thesecret is this:picksomething that is important toyou.One thing.Lookatyourbeliefonit,whatyouknowtobetrue.Then,asifdivingoffaboard,yourfeetalreadyintheair,youcommit.

Sitdown,grabapieceofpaper,writedownwhatyouwanttodoorbe,avowtoyourself. Go all in. The board is already behind you, gravity has taken over,you’refalling…

Thecommitmentis themost importantpart.Notapromise,butdeepandfromtheheart, there isnogoingback.Youhaveburned thebridges, sunk theshipsbehindyou.Thisistheonlytruethingthatmatters.

Take thatpieceofpaper,put it somewhereyouwillsee itdaily.Read italoudeachtimeyouseeit,feelingwhatitwouldbeliketoexperiencethatreality.Butthatisnotenough.Dothework.

Dothework.Dothework.Dothework.Dothework.Dothework.

Do.The.Work.

This will transform your life. Do this for fitness, for example, going all in,workingoutandeatinghealthydailyandamonthlater,you’llbeamazedatthepersoninthemirror.Dothisforyourtruth,andyouwillbesoamazingthattheworldwillopendoorstoyouthatyouneverknewexisted.

This is thesimplesecret.Picksomethingyou trulywant.Commit.Commitonpaper. To yourself. Dive in, do the work. You’ll leave the board, falling andfalling…until you notice gravity lessen, your rate of descent slowing until itreversesandthen…andthen,you’reflying.

Thatisthesecret.

WHYCREATE?

Thetoolshavechanged,buttheprocesshasn’t.Yousit,anemptypageinfront,whether it’s pixels or paper or parchment, and you fill it with feelings, withemotion,withlife.Thereismagichere.Realmagic.

Theworldquietlyasleepoutsidethewindow,theclickity-clackofthekeyboard,whatevermusic I’vegot on—chill, classical, lounge—and thewhite of thescreenslowlyfilling.

You dive deeper, you strip away the cleverness and the words become moreimportant than your ego and that’s when you know it’s real, when it’s good.Lightspreadsoutoverthehills,coversthemonastery.Dawncomesandpasses,andanewdaybegins.

Thefeelingofwhenyoustepaway,finished,andyoulookatthepageandyouknowyoutappedintosomethingbiggerthanyourself,thatfeelingis,dareIsay,spiritual.

THETHINGSICARRY

Asan infantry soldier, I carried everything I needed to survive.Weapon, coldweathergear,ammo,food,water,flashlight,bungeecords.Thelistwouldgoonforever.MyruckweighedclosetoasmuchasIdid.AndIcarrieditwithpride.

Years later,when Iwalked from one end of Spain to the other,my backpackheldeverythingIthoughtIneededonthattrip.Youlearnveryquicklythevalueofathing.Anextrapairofsockscarriedoverafewhundredmilesturnsintothatstabbingpaininyourlowerback.

BythetimeI’dwalkedoverfivehundredmilestomydestination,I’ddiscardedmostofmyclothesandpossessions.Mybackpackweighedfar less thanwhenI’d started. Extra journals, clothes, mementos, all discarded in garbage cansalongtheway.

Years later,when consulting and staying in hotels for long periods of time, alarge suitcase.Work clothes, going out clothes, gym clothes, laptops, phones,books,workshoes,goingoutshoes,gymshoes,andonandon.

As Igrowolder,a simple truthdawnsuponme.The things Icarry, the thingsthatweighmedown,theyarenotclothesorfurnitureorthelatestiPhone.Throwanyofusonadesertedisland,nopossessions,wewouldstillbeourselves.

The things I carry are my thoughts. That’s it. They are the only weight.Mythoughts determine whether I am free and light or burdened. Regardless ofwhethertheworldisexplodingorcelebrating,myinsidedeterminesthequalityofwhatIexperienceoutside.

I think that is why many traditions emphasize present moment awareness.Because that takes us away from themaze our brains seem to constantly runaround in, slows us down, makes us breathe, and just be. Even for briefmoments,justbe.

Ifthereisonethingworthworkingon,it’stheinnerself.Regardlessofthewaythatworksforyou,itisthetruepath.Itiswherefreedomlies.

RIVER

“Lifeisariver,”awisefriendtoldme.“It’sflowing.You’reneveratthesameplacetwice.”

“How’sthat?”Iasked,thinkingofmistakesmade,patternsrepeated.

“Becauseyou’redifferent,”hesaid.“You’rechanging,growing.Yourjobistoflowwith it. Trust the current.When you relax and gowith it, it’s easy. Butsomepeople,”hepaused,laughingsoftly.“Somepeople,theyfightthecurrent,theyshoutattheriver,theypaddleupthestream.”

Ifidgeteduncomfortably,seeingmyselfdoingthat.

“Andothers,”hesaid,“theyjuststartbuildingdams,throwingsticksandstonesintheriver,tryingtostoptheflow.”

“That’sme,”Isaid.“I’vedefinitelydoneit.”

“Andhowislifethen,”heasked.“Howisitforyou?”

“Notsofun,”Isaid.

“Thenyouknowwhattodo.”

BEHINDYOU

Ionceheardsomeonedescribeourfleetinglivesasthis:

“Lookbehindyou,deathisnear.Lookaway.Lookbackagain.Deathiscloser.”

My first careerwas trauma research in Emergency departments. I’vewatchedmorepeoplediethanIcaretoremember.Makesyouthink.Dayafterday,goingtowork,clockingin,puttingyourlunchinthestaffrefrigerator,waitingforthenextambulance toarrive.Anotherpatientwhowokeup thatmorning,brushedhisteeth,puthispantsononelegatatime,notknowingthattodaywouldbehislast.

Those same pants scissored away later unceremoniously by a tired nurse andthrownon the floorwhile the trauma teamworks, inserting catheters and IVs,untiltheresidentstaresatthewallclockandcallsit.

That idea you had, the company youwanted to start, the book youwanted towrite,thesongyouwantedtosing…

Lookbehindyou.It’scloser.

Evenifyouareoneoftheluckyoneswhogetstodoafulltouronthisplanet.Plenty of time, right? Read up on the regrets of the dying, those in nursinghomes.Same, throughout.Not lovingenough,doing theshoulds insteadof thewants.

Cliché, yes. But clichés exist out of the human experience. Better to listen tothemthanriskbecomingoneourselves.

The truth in life is, we are born,we exist, thenwe are gone. That’s it.Whathappensbeforeorafterisyourpersonalbelief,andifyouhaveone,youshouldliveitfully.

But thispart—birth, life, death—doesn’tmatter if you’re in a canoe in theAmazonandI’minacafeinCalifornia,oddsarethatwe’llbothagreeonit.

Beingbornandgone,wehavenocontrolover.Eventuallyhappenstothebestofus.But knowing that one daywewill cease, andnot knowingwhether that istodayoradistanttomorrow,thatrealizationisakeytolivingafulfillinglife.

Thetripyouwantedtotake,theoneyouwantedtolove,theriskyouwantedtorisk, the movie you wanted to make, the phone call you wanted to dial, thesunriseyouwantedtosee…

Lookbehindyou.Whatareyouwaitingfor?

CONSCIOUS

Fourth day at themonastery, the rain returns. I wake up to the sound on thewoodenroof.Whenitletsup,Idressandwalkoutsidetothecommunalkitchen.Theoceanistwocolorstoday:silverywhiteclosetothecoast,darkgraywhereitexpandsout.

It’sthefourthdaythatIrealizewhyIcamehere.Werner.HewassupposedtovisitmethisChristmas,hadboughtticketsearlierintheyear.Rightnow,we’dbehangingouttogetherinmycity.Exploringit.Laughing.NowonderIfelttheneedtogetaway.Tohavebeentherewouldhavebeenastarkreminderthathewasn’t.

That’sthehardestpartaboutlosingsomeone.They’regone.Really,reallygone.

I stand under the awning outside the building,watch the cloudsmove in low.Theyswoop in, skim the topof thechapel.Birdschatteraway.FourdaysandI’m itching to be back home. Sleep in my own bed, wake up and drink mycoffee.

WernerwasoneofthemostalivepeopleIeverknew.Womenlovedhim,theycouldn’thelpthemselves.Hislaugh,hissmile,hispiercingeyes.Guyslookeduptohim.Hiswifeadoredhim.Iftherewasanyonewhodidn’tcareforhim,Ihaveyettomeetthem.Notthatitwouldbotherhim.Heknewhimself.Theopinionsofanother,unlesstheyweretrulyclosetohim,didn’tmatter.

Hehadlivedlifethewayhewantedto.That’sthemostanyofuscanask.

Therainbuildsslowlyatfirst, thenhard.Ibreatheit in.Rainhasasmelltoit,youforgetthatlivinginacity.

I’ll leavehere in a fewdays, drive along the coast, returnhome.There is onethingI’lltakewithme,apracticeofbeingconscious.Wakeup,getmycoffee,thengostandoutsideandbreathetheworldin.ItisapartofmeandIofit.

Simple,butsetsthetone.Letthemindwelcometheday.Then,fromthatplace,

start.

Wernerwouldhaveapproved.

HEALING

It comeswhenyou find thegift.From theexperience, from thepain.There isalwaysagift.Whenyoudiscover it, that iswhen the shifthappens,whenyoutastefreedom.

I don’t think you can force this. Just be open, let whatever you feel movethroughyou,liveyourtruth,beyourtruth,andthelightflowsin.That’sreallyallitis.

FULFILLED

ThemonasteryissituatedhighupinthehillsofBigSur.AtwomileroadwindsdownfromtheentrancetoHighway1.Beyondit,thewideopenPacific.Sunsetsweredesignedforthisplace.

Oneevening,Iwalkdowntheroad.It’scold.I’mwearingthermalsandgloves,first time since theArmy.The skydarkensquickly.A rabbit jumpsoutof thebush,startlingme.Weobserveeachotherforamoment,thenithopsback,gone.

I continue down the path. The first star of the night appears. Not gentle, notslowly.Onemomentnotthere,theskybarren.Thenextmoment,shiningaway.Pop!Otherstarsappear.PopPopPop.

HereIam,warm,lostinmythoughts,whilestarsandrabbitsdotheirthing.TheMayanswerewrong.Theworlddidn’tend.Itwill,someday,foreachofus,butit shall be our personal journey, one human following the tracks of countlessothers.

Lifeisshort.Lifeislong.Lifeis.Itiswhateverwewishtomakeitbe.Thatisthegift.Wemayfall,veerwildlyoffcourse,makemistakes.Youknow,beinghuman and all.Makes no difference.Desire and commitment are fundamentalhumanqualitiesaswell,availableanytime.Aresetisassimpleasthismoment.

Let’smakeourtimecount.Liveourbestselves.Taketherisks,shareourdance,belt out our songs. That what we do, even if it’s forgotten after we’re gone,matterswhilewe’rehere.

Thatisalifewelllived.Afulfilledlife.

LIFE

I returnon the 30th, twodays early.The afternoonbefore,whilewalking andstaringattheoceandownbelow,onceIrealizedwhyI’dcome,IalsorealizedIdidn’tneedtobethereanylonger.Theneedjustdissolved.

Standing above the Pacific, I knew I wanted to go home. So rather than mystandardpracticeoffinishingthingsnomatterwhat,Ijustfollowedthedesire.Itfeltrighttodoit,soIdid.That’sall.

Tomorrow,NewYear’sEve.I’mnotagoout,getcrazytypeofguy.I’llstayin,reflectoverthelastweekandthecomingyear.ItextafewpeopleI’mback,gotobed,andsleepinlate.

IwakeuptoatextfromJim—myupandtotherightfriend—he’sgottenusticketstothebiggestpartyintown.EightDJs,thousandsofpeople.NotexactlywhatIwaslookingforwardto.

I grab my coffee, call him, and as I wait for him to pick up, remember thatWernerwassupposedtobeatthatparty.I’dtoldthepromoter,afriendofmine,thatWernerwouldbevisitingandhe’dofferedforWernertoDJ.We’dsetitup.I’dforgottenallaboutthat.

JimgetsonthephoneandItellhim.

“Iwouldhavebeenthere,dancingtohismusic,”Isay.“Ican’t.Ijustcan’t.”

Jimdoesn’tmissabeat.Nopressureinhisvoice,justtruth.“Perhapsthatistheexactplaceyouneedtobe.”

Andthatquickly,Igetit.TheveryplaceIwasrunningfrom,lifebroughtitrighttome.Iwasnotsupposedtobehere,Jimhadnoideawhatthepartymeanttome,andhonestly,untilI’dcalledhim,neitherdidI.

“Seeyoutheretonight,”Isay.“We’llraiseatoasttoWerner.”

Ifeelhimgrinthroughthephone.Thebeautyoffriends,theypushyouthroughdoors.

Thatnight,we’reattheparty.ClassicNewYears,massive,peopledressedtothenines.Threefloors,eight totenballrooms,all thumping.Everyonecelebrating,hoping for good things for the coming year. In the end,we’re all just human,wishingforsimplehumanthings.

Jim gets us two cups of champagne. No glasses here, not exactly what I’dimagined,but itdoesn’tmatter. Igowith it,whatever themomentbrings.Wewalk around, section to section and enter a small one, particularly alive, themusicthumping,thedancefloorbusy.

“Thisistheone,”Jimsays.

Ifeelit.Wewalktothedancefloor,raiseourplasticmade-in-Chinacups.

“Makeatoast,”Jimsays.

I realize I hadn’t prepared one. I try to think of something good, somethingspecial,butonlythetruthcomestomind.

“ToWerner,”Isay,cuphigh.“Tolife.”

Wetouchcups.TheDJisrockingaway.

“Tolife.”

The champagne tastes warm and cheap. Werner would have laughed andenjoyedeverylastsip.

TheNewYearslidesrightin.

AFTER

Hereiswhathappenswhenyougetaway,breakyourroutine,gosilent.Atfirst,nothing.Youlikeit,butapieceofyouknowsthatit’stemporary.Thememoryofhome,whatyouleftbehind,aconstantone.

Threedaysin,younoticeit.Somethingisdifferentinyourhead.Somethingismissing. Thoughts you didn’t even know that were pinging at your brain,thoughts you got so used to that they became part of the background. Thenonstopradiohissoflife.It’snotthere.

That bill to pay tomorrow, the groceries to pick up, the email to return, thatsoftwaretoupdate,thepersontocall,theappointmenttomake,theappointmentto keep, the appointment to avoid. The day in day out thoughts of living andbreathinginthemodernworld.

Pricklythoughts.

You don’t notice them until they lessen. At first, you feel like something’sshifted,likewhentherainslowsdownontheroofabove.Thedripdripdripthatyourmindwasfocusingonwithoutevenknowingit,almostgone.

Andthat’swhenyoustarttohearyourself.Ayourselfthatyoudidn’tevenknowcould speak. A self that comes from an inner place. Not a voice, but strongfeelingsandinsightsphysicallyrisingfromwithinyoursolarplexusuptoyourhead.

Theycome soquickly, soprofound, it’s startling.Whatever the issue thatyouwere running from,youget the answer.You’ll bewalkingoutside, handsdugdeep into your pockets to keep the chill away, and all of a sudden, you justknow.Fromaplacesosilentanddeep,apartofyouunderstands instinctivelythatifyoudon’tlisten,you’llprobablyregretit.

Whataboutafteraretreat?Thepricklythoughtsreturn.We’velivedalifetimeofthese,Idon’tthinktheygoawaythateasily.Butyoucarrythegiftwithyou,theinsightsyoureceived,theknowingthatyougavetoyourself.

Andyoureturntoitinmeditation,inwalkingoutunderthestars,increating,inart—anythingthatrequiresyoutobepresentinsomethingbiggerthanyourself.

Iusedtohavethesefantasiesofgoingawayforlongperiods,beingstill,learningfromwithin.Buthere’swhatIlearned:theinsightsthatwereceivewhenaway,theyareuselessunlesswe live them.And thathappens in theworld,withourrelationships,ourself-expression,ourdreams,thiscrazybeautifulplanetwegettowalkbriefly.

Theinsightswereceivewhengoingsilent, it’sourgift toourselves.Returningandlivingthem,sharingthem,thatisourgifttotheworld.

GIFT

Afterthefirstbook,afewpeoplesuggestedthatIcreateaseries.Loveyourself,the workbook. Love yourself, the twelve-step program. Love yourself for theethnicgroupofthemonthsoul.Andsoon.

Here’s the thing.All I’d donewaswrite downmy truth. I was living it, so Icouldwriteaboutit.ThatdistinctionisthemostimportantoneI’velearned.

IrecentlyreadastoryaboutGandhithatcrystallizedthewayIwishtolivemylife.Thestory:

AwomancomestoGandhiwithhersonandsaystohim,“mysoneatssugarallday,it’ssobadforhishealth.Herespectsyou.Canyoutellhimtostopeatingsugar?Iknowhe’lllistentoyou.”

Gandhilooksatherforamoment,thinks.

“Comebackwithyoursonintwoweeks,”hesays.“Iwilltellhimthen.”

Thewomanisdisappointed,butleaves.Twoweekslater,shereturns,sonintow.Gandhilooksattheboyandsays,“stopeatingsugar.”

“What the…?”Thewoman’s response. “Whydid younot tell him twoweeksago?”

“Because before I could tell him to stop eating sugar,”Gandhi says to her, “Imyselfhadtostopeatingsugar.”

I’m just a guywho figuredout how to lovehimself.And if you applywhat Idiscovered toyourself, exploring it fromwithin, itwill transformyour life thewayitdidmine.Iknowthat.

Later, I learned thatwhenyou’re lovingyourself and something in life causesyoupain,nottofightit.Tofeelit.Fully.Letitpassthroughyou.Thatislovingyourselfaswell.Andon theother side,youcomeoutclutching thegift—an

openheart.

WalkingtheEarthwithaheartthatisopen,itispowerful.Theloveyouemanatefeelslikeitcouldwrecktheworld,it’ssostrong.Sobeautiful.Andthatcreatesmagicinwaysyounevercouldhaveimagined.

WillIstaythisway?Idon’tknow,I’mhuman.ButIknowthis:I’llworkonitwith everything I’ve got. Loving yourself, being open, living fully, it’s all apractice.Consciousdecisionsmadeandlivedeachmoment.Andthroughit,justlikeGeorgeCarlintaughtLouisCK,Ishalldivedeeper,learnnewaspectsofmytruth.Andlivethem.

I’mstartingtobelievethatourexperiencesarenothingbutaseriesofgiftsandthelessweresistthem,thebetterthingsget.Throughthejoy,throughthepain,throughthegrowth,lifeisbeautiful.IliveinatimewhenIcansharemytruthacrosstheworldwithpeopleIwillnevermeet.Withthehopethatinsomeway,itcreatesbeautyintheirlives.Whatanamazinggifttome.

LOVE

Ipromiseyouthatthesamestuffgalaxiesaremadeof,youare.Thesameenergythatswingsplanetsaroundstarsmakeselectronsdanceinyourheart.Itisinyou,outsideyou,youareit.Itisbeautiful.Trustinthis.Andyouandyourlifewillbegrand.

ABOUTTHISBOOK

Writing,at itsbest, isa lonely life.Hemingwaysaid that.True.But I thinkheleftsomethingout.Sharingwhatyouhavecreatedwiththeworld,itisthemostcollaborativeandlife-affirmingthingthereis.

Nils Parker edited this bookwithmore thoughtfulness than I have ever seen.James,Claudia,Kristine, Sajid, Erin, Tucker,Dawn,Alex— they pushedmeacrossthethreshold.

Eachoneofyouthatboughtthelastbook,leftareview,sentmeanemail,youshowedmethatmywordsmatter.AndifIlearnsomethingofvalue,nomatterhowmuchitscaresmetoshareit,Imust.Yougavemethecourage.

Theactofwriting,themadness,thatismine.Theactofputtingthisbookouttotheworld,themagic,thatisyours.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

I’vebeenfortunateenoughtohavesomeamazingexperiencesinmylifesofar.I’vetrekkedtooneofthehighestbasecampsintheHimalayas,meditatedwithTibetanmonks in theDalaiLama’smonastery,earnedmyU.S.ArmyInfantrypatch,walked550milesacrossSpain, lived inParis,been theonlynon-black,non-womanmember of theBlackWomen’swriters’ group, held the hands ofdyingpatients,andworkedwithsomeofthebestpeopleinSiliconValley.

But themost transformativeexperiencehasbeen the simpleactofdiscoveringandlivingmytruth:lovingmyself.

Findmeonlinehere:Twitter:@kamalravikant

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Pleasefeelfreetocontactmeatk@founderzen.com

Iwouldbehonoredifyoureviewedthisbook.Thankyou.