Speaking Your Truth
I should have been enjoying the soothing caress of the playful
breeze as it wafted its way through my hair on this balmy
evening in the Hollywood Hills section of Los Angeles. Instead,
I was too self- absorbed to notice the sweet, spicy fragrance of
spring blossoms in the wind. I was brooding over what I should
say in my speaking engagement due to commence in about ten
minutes inside the East-West Institute meditation center. In a
muted voice, I was practicing my speech aloud when I was
startled by a shadow invading my private corner of the porch.
The sudden appearance of a tall, swarthy stranger looming over
my anxious figure temporarily seduced me out of my
self-indulgence. Obviously sensing my mood and malady, the
lanky, dark-skinned man tried to coax me out of my funk in a
soft, gentle, yet assured tone, "What's the matter, cat got your
tongue? Didn't I hear you rehearsing some lines?"
"Yes, I'm preparing my presentation for this evening. I can't
decide what to talk about. I don't know if people really want to
hear what I have to say about the subject. Maybe I should just
quote from the published research on the topic and let it go at
that," I replied despondently.
"It's none of my business, but why don't you just speak from
your heart what you've encountered personally?" "Oh, that would
be too easy!" I laughed. This bold, mysterious advisor had
shifted me out of my doom and gloom. I was grateful for that.
"Besides, people don't care what a twenty-year-old knows about
healing. I'd better adhere to what the experts and professionals
have to say."
"Suit yourself, but I've fared much better sticking to what I've
discovered firsthand. May I tell you a story?" I nodded
agreement. I was thankful for any distraction at this point. A
tale sounded like the perfect antidote to the seriousness that
had overtaken me. Through a personal story, my candid friend
offered the most precise and useful advice regarding
communication I have ever received.
"Most of my early life growing up in Morocco, I was sickly,"
Michael began soberly. "After years of searching and
experimenting in my quest for health, I came across a book by
George Osawa, the originator of a philosophy of healthy living
called macrobiotics. Encouraged by my discovery, I devoured all
the books by Osawa I could find. By eating, thinking and living
the macrobiotic way of life, I transformed the ailing youth I
once was."
"I felt robust and alive again," Michael enthused. "My recovery
was so miraculous and complete, I decided to devote my life to
helping others in the same way George Osawa helped me. With
great exuberance, I began to give public presentations about the
macrobiotic system of eating and living. I described in detail
how sickly I'd been. I expounded upon the vitality I now enjoy
and how blessed I am. Hundreds of desperate North Africans were
attracted to my talks- people seeking the restoration of fitness
that I achieved."
Michael's poise and sincerity in recounting his tale to me
explained his immediate popularity on the lecture circuit. His
compassion and dedication was palpable in the cool night air.
"But as more and more people came to my talks and my reputation
grew throughout the Arab world, I began to develop a severe
throat problem, " Michael continued. "At first, my throat would
just itch. I coughed a lot during my speeches. As I continued to
address larger and larger crowds, the tickle in my throat became
an acute ache. My voice gradually became harsh and grating. I
was stubborn and intent upon my holy mission to help others. I
insisted on keeping up my hectic speaking schedule. Finally, in
the middle of the evening lecturing to the largest audience I'd
ever assembled, my throat started to bleed. Of course, in my
arrogance, I attempted to keep going. Eventually I was coughing
up so much blood, I had to stop talking for the evening."
As the tenacious stranger paused, I drew a quick, halting
breath. I felt the need to bolster myself before he resumed. I
was visibly rattled by the focus of his story. I was about to
lecture on the same topic of macrobiotics to several hundred
anguished souls also searching for help. The similarities were
remarkable; the coincidence unnerving. My hands and legs were
trembling. I grabbed the wooden railing of the stairs to
stabilize myself. Why was I reacting so strongly to his story? I
asked myself. I was afraid to know.
"After a frustrating week of saving my voice and waiting for my
throat to heal, I began lecturing again," Michael carried on
with his cautionary tale. "The same problem appeared after just
ten minutes at the podium. This became a pattern for the next
few months. I'd reluctantly take time off for my throat to heal.
Then I'd return to my speaking schedule. Shortly into my next
talk, I'd begin coughing up blood again and be forced to stop.
It was extremely frustrating, to say the least!
"I consulted many medical doctors. No practitioner could find
anything medically or physiologically abnormal with my throat. I
saw I must look elsewhere for relief. Needing to gain my own
insight into the problem, I'd have to heal it myself.
"I became the lead detective on my own case. I noticed when I
quit lecturing, my throat stopped bleeding and healed overnight.
I also observed that my throat only acted up when I was giving a
speech about macrobiotics. My throat functioned perfectly in
everyday life. Since the only time my throat bled was during my
lectures, I determined my soul and God must be trying to tell me
something about my public speaking. After all, the problem
brought my public talks to an abrupt and embarrassing halt every
time! So, I began listening to myself in order to hear what I
was saying up to the point at which my throat would begin
bleeding."
At this juncture in Michael's biography, I was sweating
profusely and about to faint. His tale was hitting much too
close to home. I blurted out, "Please, Michael, tell me what
happens-quickly! I can't take the suspense!" My sudden outburst
made me feel acutely embarrassed, but since the moral of his
story was truthfulness, I was, at least, following the spirit of
his sharing!
Sensing my distress, the lanky stranger reached over to gently,
but firmly, grip my forearm with his right hand. It was a
sensitive and reassuring gesture on his part. I was grateful for
any assistance I could get at this point. I wanted to hear the
rest of his adventure, but part of me was afraid to absorb any
more of his lesson. I implored Michael to pick up where he left
off and ignore my emotional reactions.
"The results of my self-observation didn't reveal any helpful
clues," Michael admitted sheepishly. "I saw only that my talks
consisted mostly of me quoting George Osawa and fervently
admonishing people to eat and live according to Osawa's theories
if they wanted to regain and retain their health.
"Confused and bewildered, I prayed to God, 'What's wrong with
what I say? I'm just trying to help people.' God's answer was
swift and explicit. That very night I was awakened from my sleep
by two vivid visions. In the first, I saw myself in the present,
stridently pointing my finger at a large audience, telling them
how they needed to change the way they ate and lived. And then
suddenly, I began to spew blood from my mouth. A crimson
fountain gushed forth from my throat, soaking my lecture notes
in bright red liquid.
"In the second tableau, I saw myself in the past when I first
started to speak publicly. I was sharing calmly,
compassionately-in my own words-how I'd healed myself by
changing the way I ate, thought and lived. The group was small.
The format was informal. My throat didn't bleed. My voice was
strong and distinct. The audience was listening with rapt
attention.
"Startled and shaken, I knew instantly the import of the two
visions. When I spoke from my heart, my message was my own and
it got delivered. I was sharing observations based solely on my
own personal experience. And I wasn't trying to force my point
of view down people' s throats. When I taught borrowed wisdom
from George Osawa