The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. 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 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. 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. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus 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. This habit is both annoying and somewhat humiliating to admit. 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. It should have been straightforward. Then the mind started questioning the technique: "Is this Mahasi abdominal movement or Pa Auk breath at the nostrils?" 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. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. 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. 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 own scattered attention felt inferior. 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. For a second, there is only the raw data of experience. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. Then the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which here system does this experience belong to?" I almost laugh sometimes.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. 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. Endlessly calculating. Endlessly evaluating. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I don't try to deepen it. 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 note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I simply drift away into thought.
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 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 start bargaining with myself. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. The negotiation fails before the third breath. So be it.
There is no final answer. I don't feel clear. I feel human. 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 make no effort to find a winner. 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.