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 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. 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. It is like having too many mental tabs open, switching between them in the hope that one will finally offer the "correct" answer. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
Earlier tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. 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. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The routine was my anchor. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. That felt secure. 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. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
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. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It is almost comical.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I website felt stupid for needing that small win. See? The same pattern. 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 become aware of a constriction in my breath. I refrain from forcing a deeper breath. 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 note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I lose my focus completely.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. 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 lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I let it happen. Or I try to. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I negotiate. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The agreement is broken within seconds. It doesn't matter.
I have no sense of closure. I am not "awakened." I just feel like myself. 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 leave the question unanswered. It isn't necessary. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.