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. 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. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
My mind is stuck in an endless loop of sectarian comparisons, acting like a courtroom that never goes into recess. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus Vipassana. I feel like I am toggling through different spiritual software, hoping one of them will finally crash the rest and leave me in peace. 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.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. Simple. Or at least it was supposed to be. 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 remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The lack of choice was a relief. 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." I felt like I was being lazy, even in the privacy of my own room.
The funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. Not permanently, but briefly. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. The burning sensation in my leg. The website feeling of gravity. A distant insect noise. Then the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" I almost laugh sometimes.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. It is the same cycle. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I realize I am breathing from the chest once more. I don't try to deepen it. I know from experience that trying to manufacture peace only creates more stress. The fan clicks on, then off. 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 forget what I was doing entirely.
Mahasi versus Goenka versus Pa Auk feels less like a genuine inquiry and more like a way for my mind to stay busy. By staying in the debate, the mind avoids the vulnerability of not knowing. 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 let it happen. Or I try to. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I enter into an internal treaty. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The negotiation fails before the third breath. It doesn't matter.
I don't feel resolved. I don't feel clear. 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 leave the question unanswered. It isn't necessary. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.