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 is just past 2 a.m., and there is a sharpness to the floor that I didn't anticipate. I've wrapped a blanket around myself to ward off that deep, midnight cold that settles in when the body remains motionless. I feel a tension in my neck and adjust it, hearing a faint pop, and then instantly start an internal debate about whether that movement was a "failure" of awareness. I find the mental judgment far more taxing than the actual stiffness.
The looping Echo of "Simple" Instructions
I am haunted by the echoes of Satipatthana lectures, their structure playing on a loop. "Note this sensation. Know that thought. Maintain clarity. Stay continuous." The instructions sound easy until you are alone in the dark, trying to bridge the gap between "knowing" and "doing." Without a teacher to anchor the method, the explanations feel slippery, leaving my mind to spiral into second-guessing.
I attempt to watch the breath, but it feels constricted and jagged, as if resisting my attention. My chest tightens a bit. I label it mentally, then immediately question whether I labeled too fast. Or too slow. Or mechanically. That spiral is familiar. It shows up a lot when I remember how precise Chanmyay explanations are supposed to be. Without external guidance, the search for "correct" mindfulness feels like a test I am constantly failing.
Knowledge Evaporates When the Body Speaks
My thigh is aching in a steady, unyielding way. I attempt to maintain bare awareness of it. 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.
Earlier tonight I reread some notes about Satipatthana and immediately felt smarter. More confident. Now that I am actually sitting, my "knowledge" is useless. The body's pain is louder than the books. The knee speaks louder than the books. The mind wants reassurance that I’m doing this correctly, that this pain fits into the explanation somewhere. I don’t find it.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
My shoulders creep up again. I drop them. They come back. My breathing is hitching, and I feel a surge of unprovoked anger. I note the irritation, then I note the fact that I am noting. 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.
I hear the high-pitched drone of an insect. I hold my position, testing my resolve, then eventually I swat at it. I feel a rapid sequence of irritation, relief, and regret, but the experience moves faster than my ability to note it. I see that I am failing to be "continuous," and the thought is just a simple, unadorned fact.
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 website boxes. I can't tell where the "knee pain" ends and the "irritation" begins. My thoughts are literally part of my stiff neck. I make an effort to stop the internal play-by-play, but my ego continues its commentary regardless.
I glance at the clock even though I promised myself I wouldn’t. 2:12. Time is indifferent to my struggle. The sensation in my leg changes its character. The shift irritates me more than the ache itself. I wanted it stable. Predictable. Observationally satisfying. Instead it keeps changing like it doesn’t care what framework I’m using.
The "explanations" finally stop when the physical sensations become too loud to ignore. Heat. Pressure. Tingling. Breath brushing past the nose. I stay with what’s loudest. I wander off into thought, return to the breath, and wander again. No grand conclusion is reached.
I am not finishing this sit with a greater intellectual grasp of the path. I am simply present in the gap between the words of the teachers and the reality of my breath. 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.