The precise explanations of the Chanmyay method loop in my mind, making me question every movement and sensation as I struggle to stay present. The clock reads 2:04 a.m., and the ground beneath me seems unexpectedly chilled. I’m sitting with a blanket around my shoulders even though it’s not really cold, just that late-night chill that gets into your bones if you stay still too long. 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. "Note this sensation. Know that thought. Maintain clarity. Stay continuous." In theory, the words are basic, but in practice—without the presence of a guide—they become incredibly complex. Alone like this, the explanations don’t sound firm anymore. They blur. They echo. And my mind fills in the gaps with doubt.
I focus on the breathing, but it seems to react to being watched, becoming shallow and forced. A tightness arises in my ribs; I note it, then instantly wonder if I was just being mechanical or if I missed the "direct" experience. 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. I find the situation absurd enough to laugh, then catch myself and try to note the "vibration" of the laughter. 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. On the cushion, however, that intellectual certainty has disappeared. My physical discomfort has erased my theories. My aching joints drown out the scriptures. I crave proof that this discomfort is "progress," but I am left with only the ache.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
My shoulders creep up again. I drop them. They come back. The breath stutters. I feel irritation rising for no clear reason. I recognize it. Then I recognize recognizing it. I grow weary of this constant internal audit. In these moments, the Chanmyay instructions feel like a burden. They offer no consolation. There is no "it's okay" in this tradition. There is only the here instruction to see what is true, over and over.
A mosquito is buzzing nearby; I endure the sound for as long as I can before finally striking out. The emotions—anger, release, guilt—pass through me in a blur. I am too slow to catch them all. That realization lands quietly, without drama.
Experience Isn't Neat
The diagrams make the practice look organized: body, feelings, mind, and dhammas. Direct experience is a tangle where the boundaries are blurred. Sensation bleeds into emotion. Thought hides inside bodily tension. 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. The seconds continue regardless of my scrutiny. The pain in my leg moves just a fraction. The shift irritates me more than the ache itself. I wanted it stable. Predictable. Observationally satisfying. Instead, it remains fluid, entirely unconcerned with my spiritual labels.
Chanmyay Satipatthana explanation fades into the background eventually, not because I resolve it, but because the body demands attention again. Warmth, compression, and prickling sensations fill my awareness. I anchor myself in the most prominent feeling. My mind drifts and returns in a clumsy rhythm. There is no breakthrough tonight.
I am not finishing this sit with a greater intellectual grasp of the path. I am suspended between the "memory" of how to practice and the "act" of actually practicing. I am staying with this disorganized moment, allowing the chaos to exist, because it is the only truth I have.