The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. I feel a sharp tension in my lumbar region. 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.
I find my thoughts constantly weighing one system against another, like a mental debate club that doesn't know when to quit. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus 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 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 this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. 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 missing a detail? Is the mind dull? Should you be noting this sensation right now? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. The lack of choice was a relief. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." 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. Only for a moment, but it is real. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. 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. It is almost comical.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. It is the same cycle. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. 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. I find the sound disproportionately annoying. 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 simply drift away into thought.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. I let it happen. Or I try to. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I enter into an internal treaty. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The negotiation fails before the third breath. It doesn't matter.
I don't website feel resolved. 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 leave the question unanswered. That isn't the point. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.