It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. There is a distinct scent of damp night air, reminiscent of a rainstorm that has already occurred elsewhere. I feel a sharp tension in my lumbar region. 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. 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. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus 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 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. 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. 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. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. 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.
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 internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. I almost laugh sometimes.
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. 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 become aware of a constriction in my breath. 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. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I label that irritation mentally, then realize I am only labeling because I think it's what a "good" meditator would do. Then I give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I simply drift away into thought.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. 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 and needles. I let it happen. Or I try to. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. website "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. I don't feel clear. I feel human. 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 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.