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 keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. It is a myth. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
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. A task that is ostensibly simple. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" Are you overlooking something vital? Is there a subtle torpor? Should you be labeling this thought? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. 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 remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The timetable held me together. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. 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.
Interestingly, when I manage to actually stay present, the need to "pick a side" evaporates. Only for a moment, but it is real. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. See? The same pattern. Ranking. Measuring. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," more info whatever that even means anymore.
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I don't try to deepen it. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan clicks on, then off. 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 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 fact that no matter the system, I still have to sit with myself, night after night.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. I try to meet it with equanimity. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I negotiate. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. The agreement is broken within seconds. It doesn't matter.
I don't feel resolved. I am not "awakened." I just feel like myself. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. 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. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.