It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. I am caught in a cycle of adjusting and re-adjusting, still under the misguided impression that I can find a spot that doesn't hurt. The perfect posture remains elusive. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. 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. 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.
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?" 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 didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The routine was my anchor. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the path. That felt secure. 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. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
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. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It is almost comical.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. The same egoic loop. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I realize I am breathing from the chest once more. I don't try to deepen it. 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. 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 quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. 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.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I let it happen. Or I try to. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I start bargaining with myself. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The agreement is broken within seconds. Whatever.
I have no sense of closure. I am not "awakened." I feel profoundly ordinary. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I leave the question unanswered. That isn't read more the point. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.