T
his morning I woke up
with big plans: Go for a
long walk, catch up on
“The Daily” podcast episodes
from The New York Times, fold
my sweatshirt pile, call my dad,
finish a finance problem set,
write an essay, draft this piece.
At the crack of dawn (10 a.m.),
I stepped into my Ugg slippers,
stumbled down two flights of
stairs in an oversized grey T-
shirt and Monsters Inc. fluffy
pants and landed in the kitchen.
I was compelled to walk outside
and check the weather immedi-
ately after being blinded by the
sunlight shining through the
window. To my surprise, I was
greeted with a gentle warm-ish
breeze, one that felt unfamiliar
after a chilling Ann Arbor winter.
I inhaled the welcoming air with
a deep breath. And then I did it
again. And again.
I closed my eyes. I felt calm.
I felt peaceful. The sun melted
away my exhaustion.
After what felt like a moment
of tranquility, my long list of
morning plans suddenly came
flooding back into my mind. I
pivoted my feet towards the door,
but something kept me in place
as I tried to reenter the kitchen.
I fed the urge to turn back to the
sun, close my eyes and begin to
breathe slowly again. I couldn’t
help but smile. I was resisting the
urge to move, to do, to achieve. I
was standing alone in a t-shirt on
my Joe’s Pizza box-covered back
porch, and I felt more alive than
I had in weeks.
If 2020 has shown us anything,
it is that we never truly know
what to expect in life. And while
this uncertainty naturally leads
to feelings of stress and anxiety,
it also gives us space to practice
being comfortable with the un-
known. This so-called “space”
that I am referring to has been a
contentious topic throughout the
pandemic. For example, the al-
leged increase in “time” we now
have to find new hobbies or to
relax has been taken advantage
of by educators and CEOS alike,
over-assigning and over-expect-
ing from their students and em-
ployees. The faux luxury of time
that the pandemic has brought
on has led to intense burnout and
dangerously busy schedules.
But it is possible to take back
the time that has been stolen
away from us by back-to-back
Zoom meetings and the pressure
to master crocheting with all
the freedom we have. Instead of
asking what-ifs, we can focus on
what we do know — what is right
in front of us. We can strive to be
what my therapist calls process-
oriented, rather than results-ori-
ented.
I first noticed this distinc-
tion as I reflected on my read-
ing habits. I always have a par-
ticularly difficult time starting a
new book. My selection process
is unnecessarily long and usually
leads to option paralysis, where
there are so many choices that I
ultimately end up with nothing.
There are simply too many books
in the world and so little time.
This may explain why walking
into Barnes & Noble is simulta-
neously exciting and sickening.
Same with The Salvation Army.
I digress.
But if I do decide to embark
on an intimate endeavor with
literature, my new and carefully
selected read often sits on my
bedside table, lonely, waiting to
be touched. Sometimes I tease
the book by picking it up, but this
is usually just to show a friend
what I am “currently reading.”
And all-too-often, I’ll emit the
familiar line: “Yeah I’m really
only on page four — haha. So I
have nothing to report about it
yet.”
And I likely won’t for several
months. Right now, this book is
the New York Times bestseller
“Where The Crawdad Sings” by
Delia Owens. Its cover art hap-
pens to match my cute little pur-
ple lamp.
When I am finally compelled
to pick the book up, it takes a sig-
nificant amount of time for me
to focus on the first few pages.
I often have to read them over
twice. Five or six pages in, I flip
forward to see when the chapter
will end. 10 more pages! I can do
this, I think to cheer myself on. I
continue reading with the goal of
finishing a chapter. I read with a
results mindset.
Flash forward a few weeks
and I am sitting upright in my
bed at 3 a.m., my book propped
up against my knees. Now, I turn
the pages with less haste and
more hesitation. I am attached
to the characters and lost in the
words on the page. I read with a
process mindset.
I try not to read books this
way, where I don’t start to enjoy
them until they are about to end.
Yet unfortunately, this cycle con-
tinually repeats itself. It’s a sad
truth that applies to more than
just books: In life, people tend
to not enjoy things until they are
over.
The problem is that people
are constantly projecting into
the future and ruminating in the
past. We have all become victims
of the attention economy, one
where so much available infor-
mation and stimuli has created
a huge attention deficit. Hus-
tle porn, or the fetishization of
overworking oneself, is another
force driving people away from
focusing on the process. And of
course, our capitalistic attitudes
don’t help us deter our attention
away from results. Even mindful-
ness, the antithesis of capitalism,
has been exploited for profit.
In her book “How to Do Noth-
ing:
Resisting
the
Attention
Economy,” Jenny Odell urges
how the very essence of what
makes us human has become
threatened by the urge towards
constant productivity.
“What I’m suggesting is that
we take a protective stance to-
ward ourselves, each other, and
whatever is left of what makes us
human,” Odell writes. “I’m sug-
gesting that we protect our spac-
es and our time for non-instru-
mental, noncommercial activity
and thought, for maintenance,
for care, for conviviality. And I’m
suggesting that we fiercely pro-
tect our human animality against
all technologies that actively ig-
nore and disdain the body, the
bodies of other beings, and the
body of the landscape that we in-
habit.”
Odell
preaches
something
that is essential, especially dur-
ing a pandemic: We must do ev-
erything in our power to focus
on our humanity and appreciate
what comes with it rather than
fighting for what we cannot al-
ways control. I live for an extra
hour of laughter at the dinner ta-
ble. The sweet sound and seren-
ity of Jimi Hendrix on the high-
way. The passion with which my
sister plays the piano. Spontane-
ous sing-alongs. The salty taste
of tears.
We lose a lot when we are not
in the present.
B
efore her tragic accident
in 2012, in her essay “Op-
posite
of
Loneliness,”
Marina Keegan wrote, “The best
years of our lives are not behind
us. They’re part of us and they
are set for repetition as we grow
up and move to New York and
away from New York and wish
we did or didn’t live in New York
… of course there are things we
wish we’d done: our readings,
that boy across the hall. We’re
our own hardest critics and it’s
easy to let ourselves down.”
A tweet I recently read said,
“I feel like I’m constantly worry-
ing about the next part of my life
without realizing that I’m right
in the middle of what I used to
look forward to.” By obsessing
over everything but the reality
in front of us, we are depriving
ourselves of life. Life should not
(only) be a past experience or a
future plan — it should be the
now.
Take a deep breath right now.
Where are you? Who are you
with? How do you feel? Why are
you reading this?
The practice of being process-
oriented rather than results-
oriented
takes
intentionality.
Resisting forces such as the at-
tention economy and the pres-
sure to work hard means not only
seeing the problem but develop-
ing the strength to fight power-
ful tendencies: Don’t constantly
check your phone in the car, gaze
out the window; Don’t fill your
weeks with too many tasks, wel-
come what each day brings. To
focus on the process means to
find success in everything (F you
capitalism!) — learning from fail-
ure, accepting an unproductive
day, appreciating the little things
(as demonstrated by Big Mouth’s
Gratitoad).
Over time I have discovered
habits and hobbies that keep me
grounded, thoughtful and inten-
tional. I avoid going on my phone
first thing in the morning (I usu-
ally do not succeed — shoutout to
my Twitter addiction) and instead
lie on my floor and meditate.
By no means am I the medita-
tion expert. I’m actually far from
it. Instead, I have tried to habitu-
ate the practice even if only for
two minutes a day, using count-
less guided meditation apps that
never seem to catch on. Recently,
however, as I lay on a yoga mat on
my bedroom floor in NYC, I had
a thought that shifted my medita-
tion practice from being results to
process-oriented.
When I (attempt) to meditate,
I often find my mind wandering
away from what I am supposed to
be focusing on, such as my breath.
I quickly begin to make sched-
ules, construct grocery lists and
psychoanalyze my relationships.
This is common for beginners,
and many times it’s what disin-
centivizes people from continu-
ing with mediation. People are of-
ten motivated by results, creating
a sense of trouble when sticking
with the practice because it lacks
immediate gratification. Instead,
it is gradually effective.
My mind may have wandered
away from my yoga mat and to the
grocery store, but instead of giv-
ing up, I focused on the moment
that I returned to my breath.
Why, at that particular moment,
had I refocused my energy? I still
do not have an answer, but I am
gradually discovering what leads
my mind astray and what recen-
ters it — the smell of grapefruit,
an itch on my forehead, footsteps.
I have stopped caring about doing
it right. I embrace the process.
Mediation does not only take
the form of breathwork or sit-
ting still. I meditate on words as
I read. I meditate on sounds as
I listen to music. I meditate on
movement as I practice yoga, fo-
cusing on each pose and nothing
else. Laughter, too, is a form of
meditation.
The process is the weekend to-
do list you make on a legal pad.
The process of crossing things
out when they are done. The pro-
cess is being hungover from one
too many drinks yet still trying
to muster the energy to do your
laundry. The excitement of mak-
ing a plan. Introspecting. Laugh-
ing. Waking up. Building a rela-
tionship. Experimenting. Walking
to an interview. The interview.
Decision making. The process is
mindlessly gazing at somebody
you love because they amaze you.
Appreciating when somebody
reaches for your hand.
The process is writing this
piece, sitting on my floor, chew-
ing Bubblemint gum, the faint
sound of “Give Me Everything”
by Pitbull blasting from a car out-
side, the breeze from my window
cooling down my sweaty finger-
tips as they hit the keyboard.
I do not even know if this sen-
tence will make it to the final
draft, but it is certainly a part of
the process.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
12 — Wednesday, March 3, 2021
statement
Book seduction, meditation and
other processes
BY SAMANTHA COLE, STATEMENT ASSOCIATE EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE WIEBE