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. My lower back is tight and resistant. 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. 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 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 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 tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. A task that is ostensibly simple. 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? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. 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 recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. 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 Mahasi Sayadaw 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. It is a temporary but powerful silence. There is a flash of time where the knee pain is just heat and pressure. 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. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. See? The same pattern. Ranking. Measuring. I think about the sheer volume of energy I lose to the fear of practicing incorrectly.
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I choose not to manipulate the rhythm. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. 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 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 the fact that no matter the system, I still have to sit with myself, night after night.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I let it happen. Or I try to. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I negotiate. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." That deal falls apart almost immediately. So be it.
I have no sense of closure. I am not "awakened." I feel human. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The "Mahasi vs. Goenka" thoughts are still there, but they no longer have the power to derail the sit. I make no effort to find a winner. That isn't the point. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.