It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. There is a distinct scent of damp night air, reminiscent of a rainstorm that has already occurred elsewhere. 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 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. It is a laundry list of techniques: Mahasi-style noting, Goenka-style scanning, Pa Auk-style concentration. 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. This habit is both annoying and somewhat humiliating to admit. 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. It should have been straightforward. Then my mind intervened with an interrogation: are you watching it Mahasi-style or more like traditional anapanasati? Are you missing a detail? Is the mind dull? Should you be noting this sensation right now? It is more than just a thought; it is an aggressive line of questioning. I found my teeth grinding together before I was even aware of the stress. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. 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. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. But then, months later and without that structure, the doubts returned as if they had been lurking in the background all along. 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 funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. It is a temporary but powerful silence. 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 would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. 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 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 of tension. The fan clicks on, then off. I find the sound disproportionately annoying. I apply a label to the feeling, then catch myself doing it out of a sense of obligation. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I simply drift away into thought.
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 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 try to meet it with equanimity. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I enter into an internal treaty. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The agreement is broken within seconds. It doesn't matter.
I have no sense of closure. The fog has not lifted. I feel profoundly ordinary. 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 make no effort to here find a winner. I don’t need to. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.