It is 2:18 a.m., and the right knee is screaming in that dull, needy way that is not quite sharp enough to justify moving but loud enough to dismantle any illusion of serenity. The ground seems more unforgiving tonight than it was twenty-four hours ago, a physical impossibility that I nonetheless believe completely. Aside from the faint, fading drone of a far-off motorcycle, the room is perfectly quiet. I am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. The mind wastes no time in turning this physical state into a technical failure.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
Chanmyay pain. That phrase appears like a label affixed to the physical sensation. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
The doubt begins: is my awareness penetrative enough, or am I just thinking about the pain? Am I feeding the pain by focusing on it so relentlessly? The raw pain is nothing compared to the complicated mental drama that has built up around it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I try to focus on the bare data: the warmth, the tightness, the rhythmic pulsing. Suddenly, doubt surfaces, cloaked in the language of a "reality check." "Chanmyay doubt." Maybe my viriya (effort) is too aggressive. Or maybe I'm being lazy, or I've completely misinterpreted the entire method.
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.
The fear of "wrong practice" is much sharper than any somatic sensation. I start to adjust my back, catch the movement, and then adjust again because I'm convinced I'm sitting crooked. 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 more info failure." It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. “Chanmyay wrong practice” echoes in my head—not as a statement, but as a fear. 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. The internal critic felt vindicated: "Finally, proof that you are a failure at meditation." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief because there is an explanation; panic because fixing it feels overwhelming. I am sitting here in the grip of both emotions, my teeth grinding together. 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. Rather, it ebbs and flows, feeling like a dynamic enemy that is playing games with my focus. I strive for a balanced mind, but I am clearly biased against the pain. I see my own reaction, and then I get lost in the thought: "Is noticing the reaction part of the path, or just more ego?"
The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breathing has become thin, yet I refrain from manipulating it. 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 remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.
I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. I just sit here, aware that this confusion is part of the territory too, even if I don't have a strategy for this mess. Continuing to breathe, continuing to hurt, continuing to exist. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.