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 am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. My mind immediately categorizes this as a problem to be solved.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
Chanmyay pain. That phrase appears like a label affixed to the physical sensation. I didn’t ask for it; it simply arrives. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
Am I observing it correctly? Should I be noting it more clearly, or perhaps with less intensity? Is the very act of observing it a form of subtle attachment? The raw pain is nothing compared to the complicated mental drama that has built up around it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I attempt to stay with the raw sensation: heat, pressure, throbbing. Then the doubt creeps in quietly, disguised as a reasonable inquiry. "Chanmyay doubt." Maybe my viriya (effort) is too aggressive. 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. A ball of tension sits behind my ribs, a somatic echo of my mental confusion.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
On retreat, the discomfort seemed easier to bear because it was shared with others. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. 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
I encountered a teaching on "wrong effort" today, and my ego immediately used it as evidence against me. It felt like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. The tension is palpable as I sit, my jaw locked tight. I consciously soften my face, only for the tension to return almost immediately.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I was looking for something stable to observe; I wanted a "fixed" object. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. 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.
The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breathing has become thin, yet I refrain from manipulating it. I know from experience that any attempt to force "rightness" will only create more knots to undo.
I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny check here victory. My limb is losing its feeling, replaced by the familiar static of a leg "falling asleep." I remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. 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 feels like the only honest thing happening right now.