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. 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 is a myth. Or if it does exist, I have never managed to inhabit it for more than a few fleeting moments.
My mind is stuck in an endless loop of sectarian comparisons, acting like a courtroom that never goes into recess. 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 tell myself that I have moved past this kind of "spiritual consumerism," and yet here I am, mentally ranking lineages instead of actually practicing.
Earlier tonight, I attempted to simply observe the breath. 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? 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 noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The routine was my anchor. 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. 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. 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 mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" 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. See? The same pattern. 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 don't try to deepen it. I know from experience that trying to manufacture peace only creates more stress. The fan website clicks on, then off. The noise irritates me more than it should. I apply a label to the feeling, then catch myself doing it out of a sense of obligation. 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. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. Or the fact that no matter the system, I still have to sit with myself, night after night.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I try to meet it with equanimity. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I enter into an internal treaty. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. That deal falls apart almost immediately. Whatever.
There is no final answer. The fog has not lifted. I feel profoundly ordinary. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I leave the question unanswered. It isn't necessary. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.