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. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. 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. It is a myth. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
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.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. A task that is ostensibly simple. Then my mind intervened with an interrogation: are you watching it Mahasi-style or more like traditional anapanasati? Is there a gap in your awareness? Are you becoming sleepy? Do you need to note that itch? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. 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. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the path. That felt secure. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. 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.
Interestingly, when I manage to actually stay present, the need to "pick a side" evaporates. It is a temporary but powerful silence. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. 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 resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. See? The same pattern. Always comparing. Always grading. 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 refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer click here of tension. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. The noise irritates me more than it should. I label that irritation mentally, then realize I am only labeling because I think it's what a "good" meditator would do. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
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 with the possibility that none of these systems will save me from the slow, daily grind of actually being here.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. 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. The agreement is broken within seconds. Whatever.
There is no final answer. I am not "awakened." I feel profoundly ordinary. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I leave the question unanswered. That isn't the point. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.