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. I feel a sharp tension in my lumbar region. I find myself repeatedly shifting my posture, then forcing myself to be still, only to adjust again because I am still chasing the illusion of a perfect sitting position. It is a myth. Or if it does exist, I have never managed to inhabit it for more than a few fleeting moments.
My mind is stuck in an endless loop of sectarian comparisons, acting like a courtroom that never goes into recess. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. I feel like I am toggling through different spiritual software, hoping one of them will finally crash the rest and leave me in peace. I find this method-shopping at 2 a.m. to be both irritating and deeply humbling. I tell myself that I have moved past this kind of "spiritual consumerism," and yet here I am, mentally ranking lineages instead of actually practicing.
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? 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 think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The routine was my anchor. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. That felt secure. 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. The technical depth of the Pa Auk method crossed my mind, making my own wandering mind feel like I was somehow failing. It felt like I was being insincere, even though I was the only witness.
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. The burning sensation in my leg. The feeling of gravity. A distant insect noise. Then the ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. See? The same pattern. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. The fan clicks on, then off. 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 give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I lose my focus completely.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. If it keeps comparing, it doesn't have to sit still with the discomfort of uncertainty. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I let it happen. Or I try to. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I start bargaining with myself. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. That deal falls apart almost immediately. Whatever.
There is no final answer. I don't feel clear. I feel profoundly ordinary. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a read more dull hum in the background. I make no effort to find a winner. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.