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’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. I feel a tension in my neck and adjust it, hearing a faint pop, and then instantly start an internal debate about whether that movement was a "failure" of awareness. That thought annoys me more than the stiffness itself.
The looping Echo of "Simple" Instructions
The technical details of the Chanmyay method repeat in my head like fragmented directions. Observe this. Know that. Be clear. Be continuous. In theory, the words are basic, but in practice—without the presence of a guide—they become incredibly complex. In this isolation, the clarity of the teaching dissolves into a hazy echo, and my uncertainty takes over.
I notice my breath. Or I think I do. It feels shallow, uneven, like it doesn’t want to cooperate. My chest tightens a bit. I label it mentally, then immediately question whether I labeled too fast. Or too slow. Or mechanically. This pattern of doubt is a frequent visitor, triggered by the high standards of precision in the Chanmyay tradition. Precision turns into pressure when no one’s there to correct you.
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.
Earlier tonight I reread some notes about Satipatthana and immediately felt smarter. More confident. Sitting now, that confidence is gone. Knowledge evaporates fast when the body starts complaining. 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
I catch my shoulders tensing toward my ears; I release them, only for the tension to return moments later. 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. 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. Annoyance. Relief. A flash of guilt. All of it comes and goes fast. I don’t keep up. I never keep up. I see that I am failing to be "continuous," and the thought is just a simple, unadorned fact.
Experience Isn't Neat
The diagrams make the practice look organized: body, feelings, mind, and dhammas. Direct experience is a tangle where the boundaries are blurred. I can't tell where the "knee pain" ends and the "irritation" begins. My thoughts are literally part of my stiff neck. I make an effort to stop the internal play-by-play, but my ego continues its commentary regardless.
I break my own rule and check the time: it's 2:12 a.m. Time is indifferent to my struggle. The sensation in my leg changes its character. 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. I am left with only raw input: the heat of my skin, the pressure of the floor, the air at my nostrils. My mind drifts and returns in a clumsy check here rhythm. There is no breakthrough tonight.
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, I am staying with this disorganized moment, allowing the chaos to exist, because it is the only truth I have.