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. There is a strange hardness to the floor tonight that wasn't there before; it makes no sense, yet it feels like an absolute truth. The room is silent except for the distant sound of a motorbike that lingers on the edge of hearing. I am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. My mind immediately categorizes this as a problem to be solved.
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 raw pain is nothing compared to the complicated mental drama that has built up around it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I attempt to stay with the raw sensation: heat, pressure, throbbing. Then, uncertainty arrives on silent feet, pretending to be a helpful technical question. Maybe I'm trying too hard, forcing a clarity that isn't there. 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. My muscles seize up, reacting to the forced adjustments with a sense of protest. I feel a knot of anxiety forming in my chest, a physical manifestation of my doubt.
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 failure." Like a test I am failing in private. The thought "this is wrong practice" repeats like a haunting mantra in my mind. The idea that I am reinforcing old patterns instead of uprooting them.
The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
I encountered a teaching on "wrong effort" today, and my more info 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 that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. Sitting here now, I feel both at once. My jaw is clenched. I consciously soften my face, only for the tension to return almost immediately.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The ache moves to a different spot, which is far more irritating than a steady sensation. 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 try to maintain neutrality, but I fail. 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?"
“Chanmyay doubt” is not dramatic; it is a low, persistent hum asking, “Are you sure?” I remain silent in the face of the question, because "I don't know" is the only truth I have. The air is barely moving in my chest, but I leave it alone. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
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 stay. Or I hesitate. Or I stay while planning to move. It’s all blurry. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
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. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.