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've wrapped a blanket around myself to ward off that deep, midnight cold that settles in when the body remains motionless. 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. The self-criticism is more irritating than the physical discomfort.
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." Simple words that somehow feel complicated the moment I try to apply them without a teacher sitting three meters away. Without a teacher to anchor the method, the explanations feel slippery, leaving my mind to spiral into second-guessing.
I notice my breath. Or I think I do. It feels shallow, uneven, like it doesn’t want to cooperate. I feel a constriction in my chest and apply a label—"tightness"—only to immediately doubt the timing and quality of that noting. 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
My thigh is aching in a steady, unyielding way. I attempt to maintain bare awareness of it. I find myself thinking about meditation concepts rather than actually meditating, repeating phrases about "no stories" while telling myself a story. 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
I catch my shoulders tensing toward my ears; I release them, only for the tension to return moments later. My breathing is hitching, and I feel a surge of unprovoked anger. I note the irritation, then I note the fact that I am noting. Eventually, the act of "recognizing" feels like an exhausting chore. This is the "heavy" side of the method: it doesn't give you a hug; it just gives you a job. There is no "it's okay" in this here tradition. There is only the instruction to see what is true, over and over.
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. 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. But experience isn’t neat. It overlaps. Physical pain is interwoven with frustration, and my thoughts are physically manifest as muscle tightness. I try to just feel without the "story," but my mind is a professional narrator and refuses to quit.
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. I find the change in pain frustrating; I wanted a solid, static object to "study" with my mind. The reality of the sensation doesn't read the books; it just keeps shifting.
The technical thoughts eventually subside, driven out by the sheer intensity of the somatic data. Heat. Pressure. Tingling. Breath brushing past the nose. I stay with what’s loudest. Then I drift. Then I come back. No clarity. No summary.
I am not finishing this sit with a greater intellectual grasp of the path. I am suspended between the "memory" of how to practice and the "act" of actually practicing. I am staying with this disorganized moment, allowing the chaos to exist, because it is the only truth I have.