It is deep into the night, 2:18 a.m., and my right knee has begun its familiar, needy throbbing; it’s a level of discomfort that sits right on the edge of being unbearable. The ground seems more unforgiving tonight than it was twenty-four hours ago, a physical impossibility that I nonetheless believe completely. Aside from the faint, fading drone of a far-off motorcycle, the room is perfectly quiet. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. The mind wastes no time in turning this physical state into a technical failure.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
"Chanmyay pain" shows up in my mind, a pre-packaged label for the screaming in my knee. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
Am I observing it correctly? Should I be noting it more clearly, or perhaps with less intensity? Am I feeding the pain by focusing on it so relentlessly? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I try to focus on the bare data: the warmth, the tightness, the rhythmic pulsing. Suddenly, doubt surfaces, cloaked in the language of a "reality check." Maybe I'm trying too hard, forcing a clarity that isn't there. Perhaps I'm being too passive, or I've missed a fundamental step in the instructions.
There is a fear that my entire meditative history is based on a tiny, uncorrected misunderstanding.
The fear of "wrong practice" is much sharper than any somatic sensation. I start to adjust my back, catch the movement, and then adjust again because I'm convinced I'm sitting crooked. The tension in my back increases, a physical rebellion against my lack of trust. There’s a tight ball in my chest—not exactly pain, but a dense unease.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." Like a test I am failing in private. The thought "this is wrong practice" repeats like a haunting mantra in my mind. The idea that I am reinforcing old patterns instead of uprooting them.
The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
Earlier today I read something about wrong effort, and my mind seized it like proof. It felt like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." The idea is a toxic blend of comfort and terror. Relief because there is an explanation; panic because fixing it feels overwhelming. Sitting here now, I feel both at once. My jaw is clenched. I consciously soften my face, only for the tension to return almost immediately.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The ache moves to a different spot, which is far more irritating than a steady sensation. I was looking for something stable to observe; I wanted a "fixed" object. Instead, it pulses, fades, and returns, as if it’s intentionally messing with me. I attempt to meet it with equanimity, but I cannot. I notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just more thinking.
This uncertainty isn't a loud shout; it's a constant, quiet vibration asking if I really know what I'm doing. I don’t answer it, mostly because I don’t have an honest answer. The air is barely moving in my chest, but I leave it alone. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny victory. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I stay. Or I hesitate. Or I stay while planning to move. It’s all blurry. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Still breathing, still uncomfortable, still here. Which click here feels like the only honest thing happening right now.