The clock reads 2:18 a.m., and a persistent, dull ache in my right knee is competing for my attention—not enough to force a shift, but plenty to destroy my calm. 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. Aside from the faint, fading drone of a far-off motorcycle, the room is perfectly quiet. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. 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 ask for it; it simply arrives. The raw data transforms into "pain-plus-narrative."
I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? Am I feeding the pain by focusing on it so relentlessly? 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. Chanmyay doubt. Perhaps I am over-efforting. 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 thought hits harder than the physical pain in my knee. I catch myself subtly adjusting my posture, then freezing, then adjusting again because it feels uneven. 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
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. In a hall, the ache felt like part of the human condition; here, it feels like my own personal burden. Like a solitary trial that I am read more proving to be unworthy of. The thought "this is wrong practice" repeats like a haunting mantra in my mind. The fear is that I'm just hardening my ego rather than dissolving it.
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. “See? This explains everything. You’ve been doing it wrong.” The idea is a toxic blend of comfort and terror. I'm glad to have an answer, but terrified of how much work it will take to correct. The tension is palpable as I sit, my jaw locked tight. I relax it. It tightens again five breaths later.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The pain shifts slightly, which is more annoying than if it had stayed constant. I wanted it to be predictable; I wanted something solid to work with. Instead, it pulses, fades, and returns, as if it’s intentionally messing with me. 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.
“Chanmyay doubt” is not dramatic; it is a low, persistent hum asking, “Are you sure?” I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breathing has become thin, yet I refrain from manipulating it. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny victory. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I haven't moved yet, but I'm negotiating the exit in my mind. The clarity is gone. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.
I am not leaving this sit with an answer. The discomfort hasn't revealed a grand truth, and the uncertainty is still there. I just sit here, aware that this confusion is part of the territory too, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Still breathing, still uncomfortable, still here. That, at least, is the truth of the moment.