The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. 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 is a myth. 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. It is a laundry list of techniques: Mahasi-style noting, Goenka-style scanning, Pa Auk-style concentration. 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 pretend to be above the "search," but in reality, I am still comparing "products" in the middle of the night instead of doing the work.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. 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? It is more than just a thought; it is an aggressive line of questioning. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. By the time I noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
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. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. 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. It is a temporary but powerful silence. For a second, there is only the raw data of experience. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" 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. The same egoic loop. Ranking. Measuring. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I realize I am breathing from the chest once more. I refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I label that irritation mentally, then realize I am only labeling because I think it's what a "good" meditator would do. Then I give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I lose my focus completely.
Mahasi versus Goenka versus Pa Auk feels less like a genuine inquiry and more like a way more info 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 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 attempt to just observe the sensation. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I start bargaining with myself. 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 don't feel clear. I feel profoundly ordinary. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I don’t settle them. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.