It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. My lower back is tight and resistant. I am caught in a cycle of adjusting and re-adjusting, still under the misguided impression that I can find a spot that doesn't hurt. The perfect posture remains elusive. 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. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. It is like having too many mental tabs open, switching between them in the hope that one will finally offer the "correct" answer. 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 tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. It should have been straightforward. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" Are you overlooking something vital? Is there a subtle torpor? Should you be labeling this thought? It is more than just a thought; it is an aggressive line of questioning. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The lack of choice was a relief. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. That felt secure. But then, months later and without that structure, the doubts returned as if click here they had been lurking in the background all along. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
The irony is that when I am actually paying attention, even for a few brief seconds, all that comparison vanishes. Only for a moment, but it is real. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
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. Ranking. Measuring. I think about the sheer volume of energy I lose to the fear of practicing incorrectly.
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I don't try to deepen it. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I label that irritation mentally, then realize I am only labeling because I think it's what a "good" meditator would do. Then I quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I lose my focus completely.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. Or the fact that no matter the system, I still have to sit with myself, night after night.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I enter into an internal treaty. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. That deal falls apart almost immediately. It doesn't matter.
I have no sense of closure. I am not "awakened." I feel profoundly ordinary. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I leave the question unanswered. It isn't necessary. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.