It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. 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 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. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
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. I feel like I am toggling through different spiritual software, hoping one of them will finally crash the rest and leave me in peace. This habit is both annoying and somewhat humiliating to admit. 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.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. 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. 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. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. 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 timetable held me together. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. That felt secure. 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 funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. Only for a moment, click here but it is real. 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 mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. The same egoic loop. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I choose not to manipulate the rhythm. I know from experience that trying to manufacture peace only creates more stress. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. The noise irritates me more than it should. I apply a label to the feeling, then catch myself doing it out of a sense of obligation. Then I give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I simply drift away into thought.
Mahasi versus Goenka versus Pa Auk feels less like a genuine inquiry and more like a way for my mind to stay busy. By staying in the debate, the mind avoids the vulnerability of not knowing. Or the fact that no matter the system, I still have to sit with myself, night after night.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. I try to meet it with equanimity. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I negotiate. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
I have no sense of closure. The fog has not lifted. I just feel like myself. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I don’t settle them. It isn't necessary. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.