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 doesn’t. 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 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 tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. 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? It is more than just a thought; it is an aggressive line of questioning. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. 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. That felt secure. And then I recall sitting alone months later, without the retreat's support, and suddenly all the doubts arrived like they had been waiting in the shadows. 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.
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. The burning sensation in my leg. The feeling of gravity. A distant insect noise. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. I almost laugh sometimes.
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. See? The same pattern. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. 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 don't try to deepen it. 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 quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
Mahasi versus Goenka versus Pa Auk feels less like a genuine inquiry and more like a way for my mind to stay busy. If it keeps comparing, it doesn't have to more info 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 lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. That deal falls apart almost immediately. It doesn't matter.
I don't feel resolved. The fog has not lifted. I just feel like myself. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I leave the question unanswered. I don’t need to. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.