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 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 is a myth. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
My mind is stuck in an endless loop of sectarian comparisons, acting like a courtroom that never goes into recess. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. It is like having too many mental tabs open, switching between them in the hope that one will finally offer the "correct" answer. I find this method-shopping at 2 a.m. to be both irritating and deeply humbling. I tell myself that I have moved past this kind of "spiritual consumerism," and yet here I am, mentally ranking lineages instead of actually practicing.
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 found my teeth grinding together before I was even aware of the stress. 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. It provided a sense of safety. But then, months later and without that structure, the doubts returned as if they had been lurking in the background all along. 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.
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. The burning sensation in my leg. The feeling of gravity. A distant insect noise. Then the ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. website I almost laugh sometimes.
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. The same egoic loop. Always comparing. Always grading. 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 choose not to manipulate the rhythm. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I apply a label to the feeling, then catch myself doing it out of a sense of obligation. Then I stop labeling out of spite. 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 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. 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. So be it.
I have no sense of closure. The fog has not lifted. I just feel like myself. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The "Mahasi vs. Goenka" thoughts are still there, but they no longer have the power to derail the sit. I don’t settle them. I don’t need to. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.