It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. 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. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. It feels as though I am scrolling through a series of invisible browser tabs, clicking back and forth, desperate for one of them to provide enough certainty to silence the others. 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. It should have been straightforward. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" Is there a gap in your awareness? Are you becoming sleepy? Do you need to note that itch? That internal dialogue is not a suggestion; it is a cross-examination. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
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. That felt secure. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
Interestingly, when I manage to actually stay present, the need to "pick a side" evaporates. It is a temporary but powerful silence. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. 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.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. It is the same cycle. Always comparing. Always grading. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
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. 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. If it keeps comparing, it doesn't have to sit still with the discomfort of uncertainty. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My legs website are tingling now. Pins and needles. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I enter into an internal treaty. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The agreement is broken within seconds. So be it.
I don't feel resolved. I don't feel clear. I feel human. 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. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.