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. There is a strange hardness to the floor tonight that wasn't there before; it makes no sense, yet it feels like an absolute truth. The only break in the silence is the ghost of a motorbike engine somewhere in the distance. I am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. My consciousness instantly labels these sensations as "incorrect."
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
Chanmyay pain. That phrase appears like a label affixed to the physical sensation. I didn't consciously choose the word; it just manifested. What was once just sensation is now "pain-plus-interpretation."
I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? Is the very act of observing it a form of subtle attachment? The physical discomfort itself feels almost secondary to the swarm of thoughts orbiting it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I make an effort to observe only the physical qualities: the heat and the pressure. Then the doubt creeps in quietly, disguised as a reasonable inquiry. 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.
I worry that I missed a key point in the teachings years ago, and I've been building my practice on a foundation of error ever since.
That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. I find myself fidgeting with my spine, stopping, and then moving again because I can't find the center. 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
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. I can't stop the internal whisper that tells me I'm reinforcing the wrong habits. 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 read more like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." There is a weird sense of "aha!" mixed with a "no!" 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 relax it. It tightens again five breaths later.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I had hoped for a consistent sensation that I could systematically note. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I try to maintain neutrality, but I fail. 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. 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 victory. My leg is going numb around the edges. Pins and needles creep in. 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.
I am not leaving this sit with an answer. The discomfort hasn't revealed a grand truth, and the uncertainty is still there. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I don’t know exactly what to do with it yet. Still breathing, still uncomfortable, still here. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.