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. A blanket is draped over my shoulders—not because the room is freezing, but to buffer against that specific, bone-deep stillness of the night. 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
I am haunted by the echoes of Satipatthana lectures, their structure playing on a loop. "Note this sensation. Know that thought. Maintain clarity. Stay continuous." In theory, the words are basic, but in practice—without the presence of a guide—they become incredibly complex. Without a teacher to anchor the method, the explanations feel slippery, leaving my mind to spiral into second-guessing.
I attempt to watch the breath, but it feels constricted and jagged, as if resisting my attention. I feel a constriction in my chest and apply a label—"tightness"—only to immediately doubt the timing and quality of that noting. This pattern of doubt is a frequent visitor, triggered by the high standards of precision in the Chanmyay tradition. The demand for accuracy becomes a heavy burden when there is no teacher to offer a reality check.
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. The mind keeps drifting off to phrases I’ve read before, things about direct knowing, bare awareness, not adding stories. I laugh quietly because even that laughter turns into something to watch. Sound. Vibration. Pleasant? Neutral? Who knows. It disappears before I decide.
A few hours ago, I was reading about the Dhamma and felt convinced that I understood the path. On the cushion, however, that intellectual certainty has disappeared. My physical discomfort has erased my theories. The physical reality of my knee is far more compelling than any diagram. I search for a reason for the pain, but the silence offers no comfort.
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. Then I get tired of recognizing anything at all. This is the "heavy" side of the method: it doesn't give you a hug; it just gives you a job. 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. I feel a rapid sequence of irritation, relief, and regret, but the experience moves faster than my ability to note it. That realization lands quietly, without drama.
Experience Isn't Neat
The theory of Satipatthana is orderly—divided into four distinct areas of focus. But experience isn’t neat. It overlaps. Sensation bleeds into emotion. Thought hides inside bodily tension. 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. The seconds continue regardless of my scrutiny. The pain in my leg moves just a fraction. 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.
Chanmyay Satipatthana explanation fades into the background eventually, not because I resolve it, but because the body demands more info attention again. Warmth, compression, and prickling sensations fill my awareness. I anchor myself in the most prominent feeling. My mind drifts and returns in a clumsy 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.