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

