It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. I feel a sharp tension in my lumbar region. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. 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. It is a laundry list of techniques: Mahasi-style noting, Goenka-style scanning, Pa Auk-style concentration. It is like having too many mental tabs open, switching between them in the hope that one will finally offer the "correct" answer. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
Earlier this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. Simple. Or at least it was supposed to be. 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 internal dialogue is not a suggestion; it is a cross-examination. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. 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. It provided a sense of safety. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. The technical depth of the Pa Auk method crossed my mind, making my own wandering mind feel like I was somehow failing. It felt like I was being insincere, even though I was the only witness.
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 mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
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. It is the same cycle. Ranking. Measuring. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. 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. The noise irritates me more than it should. 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.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. 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.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I try to meet it with equanimity. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I start bargaining with myself. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. That deal falls apart almost immediately. It doesn't matter.
I have no sense of closure. I don't feel clear. I just feel like myself. 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. click here 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.