The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. 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 doesn’t. Or if it does exist, I have never managed to inhabit it for more than a few fleeting moments.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. I feel like I am toggling through different spiritual software, hoping one of them will finally crash the rest and leave me in peace. 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.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. 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? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. 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 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. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." I felt like I was being lazy, even in the privacy of my own room.
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. 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 ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. I almost laugh sometimes.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. See? The same pattern. 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 refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I have Mahasi Sayadaw learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. 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.
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 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 attempt to just observe the sensation. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I start bargaining with myself. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The agreement is broken within seconds. It doesn't matter.
I have no sense of closure. I am not "awakened." I feel profoundly ordinary. 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. That isn't the point. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.