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. My lower back is tight and resistant. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. It doesn’t. 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. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus Vipassana. It feels as though I am scrolling through a series of invisible browser tabs, clicking back and forth, desperate for one of them to provide enough certainty to silence the others. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
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. 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 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 recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. The routine was my anchor. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the path. It provided a sense of safety. But then, months later and without that structure, the doubts returned as if they had been lurking in the background all along. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." I felt like I was being lazy, even in the privacy of my own room.
Interestingly, when I manage to actually stay present, the need to "pick a side" evaporates. Not permanently, but briefly. For a second, there is only the raw data of experience. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" It is almost comical.
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 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 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. 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 lose my focus completely.
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.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I let it happen. Or I try to. The desire to shift my weight click here 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 am not "awakened." 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 don’t settle them. I don’t need to. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.