I have written about journalist and author Claire Hoffman's memoir "Greetings from Utopia Park: Surviving a Transcendent Childhood" in an earlier post, in which Hoffman talks about her upbringing in the Transcendental Meditation community in Fairfield, Iowa.

The Cut has published a lengthy passage from this well-received book entitled "Growing Up in Meditationland":

One day, I emerged from the afternoon meditation at school and found Jiten waiting for me. "How was your meditation?" he asked, mimicking the prissy voice of a teacher. "Was it easy? Was it smooth?" I laughed and said I'd been imagining the sex life of our rather shrill meditation teacher, barely remembering my mantra. "All the mantras are the same," he told me, snickering. I laughed, but the idea felt like a missile going through my head.

"I thought they were all different, like snowflakes," I said, trying to sound sarcastic.

But I was serious; the idea that my mantra was like anyone else's was until that moment inconceivable.

"No, tell me yours. I'll bet it's the same as mine," he said.

He leaned in close to me, his hand on my arm. His breath warm on my ear, he whispered my mantra to me. My mind moved slowly as I looked up at his mischievous grin. I hadn't heard my mantra said out loud for years. What had felt special for so long was not.

One day, I emerged from the afternoon meditation at school and found Jiten waiting for me. "How was your meditation?" he asked, mimicking the prissy voice of a teacher. "Was it easy? Was it smooth?" I laughed and said I'd been imagining the sex life of our rather shrill meditation teacher, barely remembering my mantra. "All the mantras are the same," he told me, snickering. I laughed, but the idea felt like a missile going through my head.

"I thought they were all different, like snowflakes," I said, trying to sound sarcastic.

But I was serious; the idea that my mantra was like anyone else's was until that moment inconceivable.

"No, tell me yours. I'll bet it's the same as mine," he said.

He leaned in close to me, his hand on my arm. His breath warm on my ear, he whispered my mantra to me. My mind moved slowly as I looked up at his mischievous grin. I hadn't heard my mantra said out loud for years. What had felt special for so long was not.

[…]

I had to admit: It did work. As much as I rolled my eyes at the Movement, meditation was still a touchstone for me. For years I used it only sporadically, when I needed it. If my plane ride was especially turbulent, I would close my eyes and start meditating before I even consciously realized what I was doing. If I had a houseguest who was staying a little too long, I'd retreat to my bedroom and meditate for an hour — to be in a space that was all my own. When I had my daughter and became perpetually exhausted, meditation became something I looked forward to. It was then that I started to realize that meditation didn't have to be everything for me — it didn't have to be a Movement or a philosophy or the cure-all that I'd been raised to think it was. Just because the waters had been muddied didn't mean I couldn't still hold on to that which still felt real for me. After a lifetime of meditating, the quietness had become who I was. So what if my mantra wasn't a secret special sound made just for me? If it worked, why would I let it go?

Featured image: Audiobook cover via AudioBookStore.com.