The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. I find myself repeatedly shifting my posture, then forcing myself to be still, only to adjust again because I am still chasing the illusion of a perfect sitting position. It doesn’t. Or if it does exist, I have never managed to inhabit it for more than a few fleeting moments.
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. 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. 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 this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. It should have been straightforward. 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. 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 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. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the path. 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. 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. It is a temporary but powerful silence. 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 mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I stayed on the click here cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. The same egoic loop. Always comparing. Always grading. 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 refrain from forcing a deeper breath. 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 give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. 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 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 let it happen. Or I try to. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I start bargaining with myself. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The negotiation fails before the third breath. So be it.
I have no sense of closure. The fog has not lifted. I feel profoundly ordinary. 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 leave the question unanswered. 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.