The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. 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. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. 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. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. 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.
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 noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I recall the feeling of safety on a Goenka retreat, where the schedule was absolute. 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. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." I felt like I was being lazy, even in the privacy of my own room.
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. 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 is click here almost comical.
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. See? The same pattern. Ranking. Measuring. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I choose not to manipulate the rhythm. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. 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 forget what I was doing entirely.
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 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 let it happen. Or I try to. There is a deep, instinctive push to change my position. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
I have no sense of closure. I don't feel clear. I just feel like myself. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. 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. That isn't the point. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.