The precise explanations of the Chanmyay method loop in my mind, making me question every movement and sensation as I struggle to stay present. It’s 2:04 a.m. and the floor feels colder than it should. A blanket is draped over my shoulders—not because the room is freezing, but to buffer against that specific, bone-deep stillness of the night. 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
The technical details of the Chanmyay method repeat in my head like fragmented directions. 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 notice my breath. Or I think I do. It feels shallow, uneven, like it doesn’t want to cooperate. A tightness arises in my ribs; I note it, then instantly wonder if I was just being mechanical or if I missed the "direct" experience. 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. The mind keeps drifting off to phrases I’ve read before, things about direct knowing, bare awareness, not adding stories. A quiet chuckle escapes me, and I immediately try to turn that sound into a meditative object. Sound. Vibration. Pleasant? Neutral? Who knows. It disappears before I decide.
Earlier tonight I reread some notes about Satipatthana and immediately felt smarter. More confident. On the cushion, however, that intellectual certainty has disappeared. My physical discomfort has erased my theories. My aching joints drown out the scriptures. I crave proof that this discomfort is "progress," but I am left with only the ache.
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. Then I get tired of recognizing anything at all. 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. The emotions—anger, release, guilt—pass through me in a blur. I am too slow to catch them all. I recognize my own lack of speed, a thought that arrives without any emotional weight.
Experience Isn't Neat
The theory of Satipatthana is orderly—divided into four distinct areas of focus. But experience isn’t neat. It overlaps. Physical pain is interwoven with frustration, and my thoughts are physically manifest as muscle tightness. I make an effort to stop the internal play-by-play, but my ego continues its commentary regardless.
Against my better judgment, I look at the clock. Eight minutes have passed. 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. The reality of the sensation doesn't read the books; it just keeps shifting.
The "explanations" finally stop when the physical sensations become too loud to ignore. Warmth, compression, and prickling sensations fill my awareness. I anchor myself get more info in the most prominent feeling. My mind drifts and returns in a clumsy rhythm. There is no breakthrough tonight.
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.