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. My lower back is tight and resistant. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. The perfect posture remains elusive. 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.
Earlier this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. A task that is ostensibly simple. Then my mind intervened with an interrogation: are you watching it Mahasi-style or more like traditional anapanasati? Is there a gap in your awareness? Are you becoming sleepy? Do you need to note that itch? It is more than just a thought; it is an aggressive line of questioning. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The routine was my anchor. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. It provided a sense of safety. And then I recall sitting alone months later, without the retreat's support, and suddenly all the doubts arrived like they had been waiting in the shadows. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. It felt like I was being insincere, even though I was the only witness.
The irony is that when I am actually paying attention, even for a few brief seconds, all that comparison vanishes. 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 is almost comical.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. 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 become aware of a constriction in my breath. I don't try to deepen it. I've more info realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. The fan clicks on, then off. 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 quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I simply drift away into thought.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. 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.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I try to meet it with equanimity. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The agreement is broken within seconds. It doesn't matter.
I don't feel resolved. I don't feel clear. I just feel like myself. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The "Mahasi vs. Goenka" thoughts are still there, but they no longer have the power to derail the sit. I don’t settle them. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.