It is deep into the night, 2:18 a.m., and my right knee has begun its familiar, needy throbbing; it’s a level of discomfort that sits right on the edge of being unbearable. The ground seems more unforgiving tonight than it was twenty-four hours ago, a physical impossibility that I nonetheless believe completely. The only break in the silence is the ghost of a motorbike engine somewhere in the distance. I am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. 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. What was once just sensation is now "pain-plus-interpretation."
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 physical discomfort itself feels almost secondary to the swarm of thoughts orbiting 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. Perhaps I am over-efforting. Maybe I am under-efforting, or perhaps this simply isn't the right way to practice.
Maybe I misunderstood the instructions years ago and everything since then has been built on a slight misalignment that no one warned me about.
That thought hits harder than the physical pain in my knee. I find myself fidgeting with my spine, stopping, and then moving again because I can't find the center. The tension in my back increases, a physical rebellion against my lack of trust. I feel a knot of anxiety forming in my chest, a physical manifestation of my doubt.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." Like a solitary trial that I am proving to be unworthy of. read more “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 read a passage on the dangers of over-striving, and my mind screamed, "See? This is you!" “See? This explains everything. You’ve been doing it wrong.” There is a weird sense of "aha!" mixed with a "no!" Relief because there is an explanation; panic because fixing it feels overwhelming. The tension is palpable as I sit, my jaw locked tight. I release the clench, but it's back within a minute. It’s an automatic reflex.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I was looking for something stable to observe; I wanted a "fixed" object. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I strive for a balanced mind, but I am clearly biased against the pain. I notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just more thinking.
This uncertainty isn't a loud shout; it's a constant, quiet vibration asking if I really know what I'm doing. I don’t answer it, mostly because I don’t have an honest answer. 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.
The sound of the clock continues, but I resist the urge to check the time. 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. All the categories have collapsed into one big, messy, human experience.
There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Continuing to breathe, continuing to hurt, continuing to exist. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.