The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. 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 it does exist, I have never managed to inhabit it for more than a few fleeting moments.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. 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 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 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. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. By the time I noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. The timetable held me together. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. It provided a sense of safety. 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. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. 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. Only for a moment, but it is real. 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. I almost laugh sometimes.
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. Always comparing. Always grading. I speculate on the amount of effort get more info I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
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 clicks on, then off. 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 simply drift away into thought.
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 with the possibility that none of these systems will save me from the slow, daily grind of actually being here.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I let it happen. Or I try to. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I start bargaining with myself. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. The agreement is broken within seconds. Whatever.
I have no sense of closure. I don't feel clear. I feel profoundly ordinary. 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 make no effort to find a winner. I don’t need to. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.