It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. My lower back is tight and resistant. 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 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 noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The lack of choice was a relief. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. It provided a sense of safety. But then, months later and without that structure, the doubts returned as if they had been lurking in the background all along. 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.
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. 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. It is almost comical.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. It is the same cycle. Always comparing. Always grading. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
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. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. The noise irritates here 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 forget what I was doing entirely.
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 lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I try to meet it with equanimity. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I start bargaining with myself. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The agreement is broken within seconds. So be it.
I don't feel resolved. The fog has not lifted. I feel human. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I make no effort to find a winner. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.