It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. 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. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
I find my thoughts constantly weighing one system against another, like a mental debate club that doesn't know when to quit. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. 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. I find this method-shopping at 2 a.m. to be both irritating and deeply humbling. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
Earlier tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. A task that is ostensibly simple. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" Are you overlooking something vital? Is there a subtle torpor? Should you be labeling this thought? 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. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The routine was my anchor. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. And then I recall sitting alone months later, without the retreat's support, and suddenly all the doubts arrived like they had been waiting in the shadows. The technical depth of the Pa Auk method crossed my mind, making my own wandering mind feel like I was somehow failing. 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. Only for a moment, but it is real. 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 more info the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" 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. See? The same pattern. Always comparing. Always grading. 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. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. I find the sound disproportionately annoying. I note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I lose my focus completely.
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 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." The agreement is broken within seconds. Whatever.
There is no final answer. I am not "awakened." I feel human. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. 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.