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. I’m sitting with a blanket around my shoulders even though it’s not really cold, just that late-night chill that gets into your bones if you stay still too long. 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
Chanmyay Satipatthana explanations keep looping in my mind like half-remembered instructions. The commands are simple: observe, know, stay clear, stay constant. The instructions sound easy until you are alone in the dark, trying to bridge the gap between "knowing" and "doing." 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. Precision turns into pressure when no one’s there to correct you.
Knowledge Evaporates When the Body Speaks
I feel a lingering, dull pain in my left leg; I make an effort to observe it without flinching. My thoughts repeatedly wander to spiritual clichés: "direct knowing," "bare attention," "dropping the narrative." I laugh quietly because even that laughter turns into something to watch. I try to categorize the laugh—is it neutral or pleasant?—but it's gone before the mind can file it away.
Earlier tonight I reread some notes about Satipatthana and immediately felt smarter. More confident. Now that I am actually sitting, my "knowledge" is useless. The body's pain is louder than the books. 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 stutters. I feel irritation rising for no clear reason. I recognize it. Then I recognize recognizing it. I grow weary of this constant internal audit. This is where Chanmyay explanations feel both helpful and heavy. They don’t comfort. 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. Annoyance. Relief. A flash of guilt. All of it comes and goes fast. I don’t keep up. I never keep up. I recognize my own lack of speed, a thought that arrives without any emotional weight.
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 sit here trying not to organize it, trying not to narrate, and still narrating anyway. My mind is stubborn like that.
Against my better judgment, I look at the clock. Eight minutes have passed. Time is indifferent to my struggle. The sensation in my leg changes its character. I find the change in pain frustrating; I wanted a solid, static object to "study" with my mind. Instead, it remains fluid, entirely click here unconcerned with my spiritual labels.
The "explanations" finally stop when the physical sensations become too loud to ignore. Heat. Pressure. Tingling. Breath brushing past the nose. I stay with what’s loudest. 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.