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. I feel a sharp tension in my lumbar region. 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.
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 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 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. It should have been straightforward. Suddenly, the internal critic jumped in, asking if I was following the Mahasi noting method or a more standard breath awareness. Are you overlooking something vital? Is there a subtle torpor? Should you be labeling this thought? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The timetable held me together. 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. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." 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. Not permanently, but briefly. There is a flash of time where the knee pain is just heat and pressure. 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.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. The same egoic loop. Always comparing. Always grading. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. 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. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. 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 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. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. I let it happen. Or I try to. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The agreement is broken within seconds. So be it.
I don't feel resolved. The fog has not lifted. I feel profoundly ordinary. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the Mahasi Sayadaw background. I leave the question unanswered. It isn't necessary. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.