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 find myself repeatedly shifting my posture, then forcing myself to be still, only to adjust again because I am still chasing the illusion of a perfect sitting position. The perfect posture remains elusive. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
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 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 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. 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. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. By the time I noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. 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. The technical depth of the Pa Auk method crossed my mind, making my own wandering mind feel like I was somehow failing. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
The funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. Not permanently, but briefly. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. Warmth in the Mahasi Sayadaw joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. 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 speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I don't try to deepen it. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan 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 quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
Mahasi versus Goenka versus Pa Auk feels less like a genuine inquiry and more like a way for my mind to stay busy. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. 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.
There is no final answer. I don't feel clear. I feel human. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I leave the question unanswered. 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.