It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. There is a distinct scent of damp night air, reminiscent of a rainstorm that has already occurred elsewhere. I feel a sharp tension in my lumbar region. 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 doesn’t. Or if it does exist, I have never managed to inhabit it for more than a few fleeting moments.
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. This habit is both annoying and somewhat humiliating to admit. 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. Then my mind intervened with an interrogation: are you watching it Mahasi-style or more like traditional anapanasati? Are you overlooking something vital? Is there a subtle torpor? Should you be labeling this thought? 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 think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The timetable held me together. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. It provided a sense of safety. 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. 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 irony is that when I am actually paying attention, even for a few brief seconds, all that comparison vanishes. Not permanently, but briefly. 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. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. 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 notice my breathing has become shallow again. I don't try to deepen it. I've realized that click here the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. I find the sound disproportionately annoying. I note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I lose my focus completely.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. By staying in the debate, the mind avoids the vulnerability of not knowing. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. 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.
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 make no effort to find a winner. It isn't necessary. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.