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. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. It doesn’t. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
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. I feel like I am toggling through different spiritual software, hoping one of them will finally crash the rest and leave me in peace. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
Earlier this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. 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 voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. By the time I noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The routine was my anchor. 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. It felt like I was being insincere, even though I was the only witness.
Interestingly, when I manage to actually stay present, the need to "pick a side" evaporates. Not permanently, but briefly. 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 internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
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. Ranking. Measuring. I think about the sheer volume of energy I lose to the fear of practicing incorrectly.
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I don't try to deepen it. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. 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 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 realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My legs are tingling now. Pins get more info and needles. 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. The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
There is no final answer. I am not "awakened." I just feel like myself. 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. 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.