It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. My lower back is tight and resistant. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. It doesn’t. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. It is a laundry list of techniques: Mahasi-style noting, Goenka-style scanning, Pa Auk-style concentration. It feels as though I am scrolling through a series of invisible browser tabs, clicking back and forth, desperate for one of them to provide enough certainty to silence the others. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I pretend to be above the "search," but in reality, I am still comparing "products" in the middle of the night instead of doing the work.
Earlier this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. A task that is ostensibly simple. Suddenly, the internal critic jumped in, asking if I was following the Mahasi noting method or a more standard breath awareness. Are you missing a detail? Is the mind dull? Should you be noting this sensation right now? That internal dialogue is not a suggestion; it is a cross-examination. I found my teeth grinding together before I was even aware of the stress. By the time I noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The routine was my anchor. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the path. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. And then I recall sitting alone months later, without the retreat's support, and suddenly all the doubts arrived like they had been waiting in the shadows. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. I felt like I was being lazy, even in the privacy of my own room.
The irony is that when I am actually paying attention, even for a few brief seconds, all that comparison vanishes. It is a temporary but powerful silence. There is a flash of time where the knee pain is just heat and pressure. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. I almost laugh sometimes.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. See? The same pattern. Always comparing. Always grading. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I choose not to manipulate the rhythm. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. By staying in the debate, the mind avoids the vulnerability of not knowing. Or with the possibility that none of these systems will save me from the slow, daily grind of actually being here.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." That deal falls apart almost immediately. Whatever.
I don't feel resolved. check here The fog has not lifted. I feel profoundly ordinary. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I don’t settle them. I don’t need to. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.