It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. 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 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. It is a myth. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
I find my thoughts constantly weighing one system against another, like a mental debate club that doesn't know when to quit. 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. This habit is both annoying and somewhat humiliating to admit. 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. Suddenly, the internal critic jumped in, asking if I was following the Mahasi noting method or a more standard breath awareness. Are you missing a detail? Is the mind dull? Should you be noting this sensation right now? It is more than just a thought; it is an aggressive line of questioning. 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 think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The timetable held me together. I didn't have to think; I only had to follow the pre-recorded voice. That felt secure. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. 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. Only for a moment, but it is real. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. The burning sensation in my leg. The feeling of gravity. A distant insect noise. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It is almost comical.
My phone buzzed earlier with a random notification. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. It is the same cycle. Always comparing. Always grading. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I realize I am breathing from the chest once more. I choose not to manipulate the rhythm. I know from experience that trying to manufacture peace only creates more stress. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. I find the sound disproportionately annoying. I note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I give up on the technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I simply drift away into thought.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. 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 urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I start bargaining with myself. I tell myself I'll stay for five more breaths before I allow an adjustment. The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
I don't feel resolved. I am not Mahasi Sayadaw "awakened." I feel profoundly ordinary. 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 leave the question unanswered. It isn't necessary. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.