It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. 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 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.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. 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. 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 this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. Simple. Or at least it was supposed to be. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" 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. 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 recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. The timetable held me together. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the more info path. 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.
Interestingly, when I manage to actually stay present, the need to "pick a side" evaporates. Not permanently, but briefly. For a second, there is only the raw data of experience. 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 resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. The same egoic loop. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. I think about the sheer volume of energy I lose to the fear of practicing incorrectly.
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. 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 lose my focus completely.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. 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 lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I enter into an internal treaty. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The agreement is broken within seconds. So be it.
There is no final answer. I am not "awakened." I just feel like myself. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I don’t settle them. It isn't necessary. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.