It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. 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. The perfect posture remains elusive. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
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. 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 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. 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 voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. I found my teeth grinding together before I was even aware of the stress. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. 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. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my read more own scattered attention felt inferior. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
The funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. 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 ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. 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 realize I am breathing from the chest once more. 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 makes its rhythmic clicking sound. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. 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.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. If it keeps comparing, it doesn't have to sit still with the discomfort of uncertainty. Or with the possibility that none of these systems will save me from the slow, daily grind of actually being here.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. I try to meet it with equanimity. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I start bargaining with myself. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
I have no sense of closure. I don't feel clear. I feel human. Confused. Slightly tired. Still showing up. The "Mahasi vs. Goenka" thoughts are still there, but they no longer have the power to derail the sit. I make no effort to find a winner. It isn't necessary. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.