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 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 is a myth. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
My mind is stuck in an endless loop of sectarian comparisons, acting like a courtroom that never goes into recess. It is a laundry list of techniques: Mahasi-style noting, Goenka-style scanning, Pa Auk-style concentration. 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 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. Simple. Or at least it was supposed to be. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" Is there a gap in your awareness? Are you becoming sleepy? Do you need to note that itch? That internal dialogue is not a suggestion; it is a cross-examination. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
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. 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. 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. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. Then the ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. 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. It is the same cycle. Ranking. Measuring. 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 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. I find the sound disproportionately annoying. I label that irritation mentally, then realize I am only labeling because I think it's what a "good" meditator would do. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I simply drift away into thought.
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 negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The agreement is broken within seconds. So be it.
I don't feel resolved. I don't feel clear. I just feel like myself. 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 leave the question unanswered. That more info isn't the point. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.