It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. The perfect posture remains elusive. 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. It is like having too many mental tabs open, switching between them in the hope that one will finally offer the "correct" answer. I find this method-shopping at 2 a.m. to be both irritating and deeply humbling. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
Earlier tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. Simple. Or at least it was supposed to be. 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 didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The routine was my anchor. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. It provided a sense of safety. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. 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 flash of time where the knee pain is just heat and pressure. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on more info 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. 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. Ranking. Measuring. I think about the sheer volume of energy I lose to the fear of practicing incorrectly.
I realize I am breathing from the chest once more. I don't try to deepen it. I know from experience that trying to manufacture peace only creates more stress. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. 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 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 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.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I try to meet it with equanimity. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The negotiation fails before the third breath. It doesn't matter.
There is no final answer. I don't feel clear. I feel profoundly ordinary. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The "Mahasi vs. Goenka" thoughts are still there, but they no longer have the power to derail the sit. I make no effort to find a winner. I don’t need to. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.