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've wrapped a blanket around myself to ward off that deep, midnight cold that settles in when the body remains motionless. 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. I find the mental judgment far more taxing than the actual stiffness.
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." Simple words that somehow feel complicated the moment I try to apply them without a teacher sitting three meters away. In this isolation, the clarity of the teaching dissolves into a hazy echo, and my uncertainty takes over.
I focus on the breathing, but it seems to react to being watched, becoming shallow and forced. My chest tightens a bit. I label it mentally, then immediately question whether I labeled too fast. Or too slow. Or mechanically. That spiral is familiar. It shows up a lot when I remember how precise Chanmyay explanations are supposed to be. The demand for accuracy becomes a heavy burden when there is no teacher to offer a reality check.
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. 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.
A few hours ago, I was reading about the Dhamma and felt convinced that I understood the path. Now that I am actually sitting, my "knowledge" is useless. The body's pain is louder than the books. The physical reality of my knee is far more compelling than any diagram. I search for a reason for the pain, here but the silence offers no comfort.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
My posture is a constant struggle; I relax my shoulders, but they reflexively tighten again. The breath is uneven, and I find myself becoming frustrated. I observe the frustration, then observe the observer. I grow weary of this constant internal audit. In these moments, the Chanmyay instructions feel like a burden. They offer no consolation. The teachings don't offer reassurance; they simply direct you back to the raw data of the moment.
A mosquito is buzzing nearby; I endure the sound for as long as I can before finally striking out. I feel a rapid sequence of irritation, relief, and regret, but the experience moves faster than my ability to note it. That realization lands quietly, without drama.
Experience Isn't Neat
The diagrams make the practice look organized: body, feelings, mind, and dhammas. Actual reality, however, is messy and refuses to stay in its boxes. Physical pain is interwoven with frustration, and my thoughts are physically manifest as muscle tightness. 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. Time passes whether I watch it or not. The ache in my thigh shifts slightly. I find the change in pain frustrating; I wanted a solid, static object to "study" with my mind. 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. 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 just feel here, caught between instruction and experience, between remembering and actually feeling, sitting in this unfinished mess, letting it be messy, because that’s what’s happening whether I approve of it or not.