Chanmyay Satipatthana explanations echo in my head while I’m still stuck feeling sensations and second-guessing everything. The clock reads 2:04 a.m., and the ground beneath me seems unexpectedly chilled. I've wrapped a blanket around myself to ward off that deep, midnight cold that settles in when the body remains motionless. My neck’s stiff. I tilt it slightly, hear a soft crack, then immediately wonder if I just broke mindfulness by moving. That thought annoys me more than the stiffness itself.
The looping Echo of "Simple" Instructions
Chanmyay Satipatthana explanations keep looping in my mind like half-remembered instructions. The commands are simple: observe, know, stay clear, stay constant. In theory, the words are basic, but in practice—without the presence of a guide—they become incredibly complex. 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. I feel a constriction in my chest and apply a label—"tightness"—only to immediately doubt the timing and quality of that noting. 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
My thigh is aching in a steady, unyielding way. I attempt to maintain bare awareness of it. My thoughts repeatedly wander to spiritual clichés: "direct knowing," "bare attention," "dropping the narrative." 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.
I spent some time earlier reviewing my notes on the practice, which gave me a false sense of mastery. On the cushion, however, that intellectual certainty has disappeared. My physical discomfort has erased my theories. The physical reality of my knee is far more compelling than any diagram. I search for a reason for the pain, but the silence offers no comfort.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
I catch my shoulders tensing toward my ears; I release them, only for the tension to return moments later. 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. This is where Chanmyay explanations feel both helpful and heavy. They don’t comfort. There is no "it's okay" in this tradition. There is only the instruction to see what is true, over and over.
There’s a mosquito whining somewhere near my ear. I wait. I don’t move. I wait a little longer than usual. Then I swat. Annoyance. Relief. A flash of guilt. All of it comes and goes fast. I don’t keep up. I never keep up. I see that I am failing to be "continuous," and the thought is just a simple, unadorned fact.
Experience Isn't Neat
The website diagrams make the practice look organized: body, feelings, mind, and dhammas. But experience isn’t neat. It overlaps. Physical pain is interwoven with frustration, and my thoughts are physically manifest as muscle tightness. I sit here trying not to organize it, trying not to narrate, and still narrating anyway. My mind is stubborn like that.
I glance at the clock even though I promised myself I wouldn’t. 2:12. 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.
The technical thoughts eventually subside, driven out by the sheer intensity of the somatic data. I am left with only raw input: the heat of my skin, the pressure of the floor, the air at my nostrils. I wander off into thought, return to the breath, and wander again. No grand conclusion is reached.
I don't have a better "theory" of meditation than when I started. 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.