It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. There is a distinct scent of damp night air, reminiscent of a rainstorm that has already occurred elsewhere. My lower back is tight and resistant. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. The perfect posture remains elusive. 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 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 tell myself that I have moved past this kind of "spiritual consumerism," and yet here I am, mentally ranking lineages instead of actually practicing.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. 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? 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 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 lack of choice was a relief. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. But then, months later and without that structure, the doubts returned as if they had been lurking in the background all along. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. 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. For a second, there is only the raw data of experience. 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.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. See? The same pattern. 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 notice my breathing has become shallow again. 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 note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I simply drift away into thought.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. If it keeps get more info comparing, it doesn't have to sit still with the discomfort of uncertainty. Or with the possibility that none of these systems will save me from the slow, daily grind of actually being here.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I enter into an internal treaty. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. That deal falls apart almost immediately. So be it.
There is no final answer. I don't feel clear. I feel profoundly ordinary. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I don’t settle them. I don’t need to. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.