Introduction

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    My third experiment will be a creative nonfiction piece detailing my failed attempts at meditation, and similarly, the awkward process of trying to find inner peace without the guidance of established religion. The piece will follow my racing thoughts during a meditation session, and in the process show that it is impossible for one to truly “turn off” their thoughts, and it is only possible to learn how to control them.

     My experiment is based off of the song “Shangri-La” by Caitlyn Scarlett. While the other songs on my playlist (my artifact of origin) deal with paradigm shifts regarding religious views, this song explores a widely accepted religious concept: paradise. The lyrics from the song that inspire me read: “Paradise waits -/ Only for the lonely, the escapists, and the brave -/ Freedom is a place -/ Let’s run away -/ I know the way -/ To somewhere far -/ They call it Shangri-La”. I am fascinated by the concept of Heaven on Earth, and the question of how one achieves peace. Specifically, I wonder if peace is a place, a person, an experience, or something else.

     In addition to this, I want to make this experiment because I believe the current cultural conversation around meditation is flawed, and I want to offer a counter-argument. Specifically, things like meditation and yoga are common examples of relaxing “self-care” strategies, although in my experience, meditation is necessary yet grueling and difficult work. Because of this, I also believe my experiment will best be suited for a young adult audience.

    Last but not least, this experiment is special to me because the creative nonfiction genre encourages one to be indulgent in their own life experiences. 
 

Genre Research

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    The creative nonfiction genre is currently under a lot of contention (Moore). Some critics believe the term ‘creative nonfiction’ is essentially meaningless, while others believe the genre deserves its own special attention. Creative nonfiction is also often confused with memoirs. While memoirs are always written in the first person, creative nonfiction is not always written in first person (“Memoir vs Creative Nonfiction”). Creative nonfiction is slightly less personal than a memoir, and it is defined by its focus on specific scenes, rather than focusing on the broad life of the narrator. 

     Much of the above information comes from Lee Gutkind, who is often referred to as “the godfather of creative nonfiction”, and he is credited with pioneering the genre (“The Godfather of Creative Non-Fiction”). Gutkind also is the creator of the literary magazine Creative Nonfiction, where he lists the conventions of the genre:

     Gutkind writes that creative nonfiction’s ultimate goal is to “communicate ideas and information in a cinematic way”. This is achieved by balancing style and truth. Gutkind compares creative nonfiction to BOTS (based-on-true-stories) movies, as sometimes directors will use cinematic techniques to dramatize the story, and will sometimes take creative liberties, but the story the director tells is generally rooted in truth. 

     In addition to this, Leslie Jamison’s creative nonfiction work heavily inspired the tone of this piece. Specifically, Jamison’s piece titled “Layover Story” includes a deep, introspective look into the narrator’s thoughts, by showing the way she makes assumptions about the people she encounters waiting for a layover in an airport. 
 

Works Cited 

“The Godfather of Creative Non-Fiction” - Lee Gutkind.” Radio National, 1 May 2009, www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/archived/bookshow/the-godfather-of-creative-non-fiction---lee-gutkind/3134024. 

Gutkind, Lee. What Exactly Is Creative Nonfiction? 6 Feb. 2018, leegutkind.com/what-exactly-is-creative-nonfiction/. 

“Lee Gutkind.” Lee Gutkind | Creative Nonfiction, www.creativenonfiction.org/authors/lee-gutkind. 

“Memoir vs Creative Non-Fiction.” OWS Ink, Medium, 30 Jan. 2017, medium.com/@stephanieayers/memoir-vs-creative-non-fiction-c05318904f5c. 

Moore, Dinty W. “A Genre by Any Other Name?” A Genre by Any Other Name? | Creative Nonfiction, www.creativenonfiction.org/online-reading/genre-any-other-name. 

“What Is Creative Nonfiction?” What Is Creative Nonfiction? | Creative Nonfiction, www.creativenonfiction.org/online-reading/what-creative-nonfiction. 

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FINAL PROJECT

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THE SUN is out when I meditate for the first time in my life. It shines in dappled spots on the picnic blanket I brought, which floats on a soft patch of grass. I woke up early to do this. I woke up early, brushed my teeth, got dressed and clean, gathered my things, and headed to the Arb as the sun was rising. 

I settle myself on the blanket and make my spine straight as a pole. I focus hard from beneath my eyelids, working really, really hard to do....well, I'm not sure what, exactly. I still don't know what meditation really is. I just try to work really, really hard at it. I try to focus on breathing. That's what the magazines and wellness websites and fitness gurus are always babbling about, breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Inhale, exhale. My mind paces wildly. Yes, this is it. I'm meditating....this is it.....

I jolt awake with a start. A shiver runs down my body, and I realize, slowly, that I must have fallen asleep. Forget clearing my mind, I just shut the entire thing down. And when I look around, I start to feel pretty foolish. Who am I, waking up at sunrise, thinking she has this self-care thing mastered? Who am I, to deprive myself of sleep, and expect a bit of mindfulness under the morning sun to be anything other than a snoozefest? 

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THE MOON is out when I meditate for the second time. The sky is still pretty bright just after dusk. After the half-sleep disaster that was my first shot at meditating, I figured I'd switch tactics and meditate in the evening. As soon as I sit down, I feel better than the first time. My muscles are sore from a long day of walking around campus, and they are happy to rest. I sit outside again, but this time much closer to home--literally; I sit on a patch of grass a few feet in front of my front door. Feeling determined, I start again.

I think about the burdens of my day, from underneath the moon's peachy glow. I think about school, and class, and my friends, and I think about moments that embarrassed me, shocked me, or made me laugh. I think about my family, whom I love and miss. I think about my insecurities, my hatreds, my indulgences, and my darkest fears. I think about theories of the universe; of the occult; of the meaning of life. I think about my childhood, as I often do. 

When I open my eyes, I feel as though my brain has grazed every thought a human can have. And this makes me feel satisfied, like I've done something substantial. However, I feel a strange sort of emptiness and dissatisfaction. Or, more accurately, I feel a lack of good feeling. As I gather my things and head inside, I'm left wondering, what didn't work? Why didn't this work? What did I do wrong?

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THE STARS are out when I meditate for the final time. I do it on the creaky porch in my backyard, under the dim orbs still hanging from Christmas. It feels like the wrong place to try to relax, since it’s human nature to be vigilant when you’re alone and outside at night, but if I’m being honest, the mild tension seems appropriate. I’m not looking to relax, not exactly. I’m looking to enter my own mind--once and for all, and without any petty distractions. I assemble some garden cushions together, then drape a picnic blanket over them in a makeshift yoga mat, then settle myself into an awkward seated position.

Before I start, I think idly to myself about the beauty of my setting. It’s a warm night. The air is still but the fauna very much aren’t, and I see a rabbit and a pair or squirrels scuttering across the grass. A smattering of moths snow down from their cluster on the overhead light. Being outdoors is enough to keep me awake, but the night sky is a protective veil, shielding me from the eyes of my curious neighbors. Yes, this is exactly the time and place I need to do this. I close my eyes and let go.

As usual, bad thoughts rear their ugly heads first. They come fast and hard, one after the other, each one no less ruthless than the last. Are you seriously trying to meditate again? Seriously? Don’t you have homework to do? What is this? Stop it stop it stop it. Ann Arbor continues to exist beyond my little bubble, and the muffled sounds of the city leak through the trees. The city does not stop for meditation. The city does not pause time for you. The city does not forgive. Who are you to think time belongs to you? People are dying and you’re just sitting here doing fuck all. Who are you to shut that all out? 

By and by, the thoughts grow milder and less coherent. Time softens and spreads thick. Why are you still here? Why are you choosing to be here? Sometimes the thoughts are odd. Do you think you could jump the fence in one smooth go, or are you not athletic enough? Some thoughts are funny. You know, meditation isn’t so bad. You know who needs this? Dad needs this. I think the Buddhists were on to something. How much is a flight to Nepal? Probably not much. Some thoughts are too morbid to write.

The thoughts, good or bad, wild or simple, reassure me that I'm doing things right. I realize that mindfulness is work, but it shouldn't be a chore.