The precise explanations of the Chanmyay method loop in my mind, making me question every movement and sensation as I struggle to stay present. It’s 2:04 a.m. and the floor feels colder than it should. I've wrapped a blanket around myself to ward off that deep, midnight cold that settles in when the body remains motionless. My neck is tight; I move it, hear a small crack, and then immediately feel a surge of doubt about the "correctness" of that movement. The self-criticism is more irritating than the physical discomfort.
The looping Echo of "Simple" Instructions
I am haunted by the echoes of Satipatthana lectures, their structure playing on a loop. Observe this. Know that. Be clear. Be continuous. The instructions sound easy until you are alone in the dark, trying to bridge the gap between "knowing" and "doing." In this isolation, the clarity of the teaching dissolves into a hazy echo, and my uncertainty takes over.
I attempt to watch the breath, but it feels constricted and jagged, as if resisting my attention. I feel a constriction in my chest and apply a label—"tightness"—only to immediately doubt the timing and quality of that noting. This pattern of doubt is a frequent visitor, triggered by the high standards of precision in the Chanmyay tradition. Without external guidance, the search for "correct" mindfulness feels like a test I am constantly failing.
Knowledge Evaporates When the Body Speaks
There’s a dull ache in my left thigh. Not intense. Just persistent. I stay with it. Or I try to. The mind keeps drifting off to phrases I’ve read before, things about direct knowing, bare awareness, not adding stories. A quiet chuckle escapes me, and I immediately try to turn that sound into a meditative object. I try to categorize the laugh—is it neutral or pleasant?—but it's gone before the mind can file it away.
A few hours ago, I was reading about the Dhamma and felt convinced that I understood the path. Now that I am actually sitting, my "knowledge" is useless. The body's pain is louder than the books. The physical reality of my knee is far more compelling than any diagram. I search for a reason for the pain, but the silence offers no comfort.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
My shoulders creep up again. I drop them. They come back. The breath is uneven, and I find myself becoming frustrated. I observe the frustration, then observe the observer. Eventually, the act of "recognizing" feels like an exhausting chore. This is where Chanmyay explanations feel both helpful and heavy. They don’t comfort. The teachings don't offer reassurance; they simply direct you back to the raw data of the moment.
There’s a mosquito whining somewhere near my ear. I wait. I don’t move. I wait a little longer than usual. Then I swat. The emotions—anger, release, guilt—pass through me in a blur. I am too slow to catch them all. I recognize my own lack of speed, a thought that arrives without any emotional weight.
Experience Isn't Neat
The theory of Satipatthana is orderly—divided into four distinct areas of focus. Actual reality, however, is messy and refuses to stay in its boxes. Physical pain is interwoven with frustration, and my thoughts are physically manifest as muscle tightness. I try to just feel without the "story," but my mind is a professional narrator and refuses to quit.
I break my own rule and check the time: it's 2:12 a.m. Time is indifferent to my struggle. The sensation in my leg changes its character. I am annoyed that the pain won't stay still. I wanted it to be a reliable target for my mindfulness. Instead, it remains fluid, entirely unconcerned with my spiritual labels.
The "explanations" finally stop when the physical sensations become too loud to ignore. I am left with only raw input: more info the heat of my skin, the pressure of the floor, the air at my nostrils. I wander off into thought, return to the breath, and wander again. No grand conclusion is reached.
I don't have a better "theory" of meditation than when I started. I just feel here, caught between instruction and experience, between remembering and actually feeling, I am sitting in the middle of this imperfect, unfinished experience, letting it be exactly as it is, because reality doesn't need my approval to be real.