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 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 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. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. The raw data transforms into "pain-plus-narrative."
I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? Is the very act of observing it a form of subtle attachment? 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. "Chanmyay doubt." Maybe my viriya (effort) is too aggressive. Or maybe I'm being lazy, or I've completely misinterpreted the entire method.
There is a fear that my entire meditative history is based on a tiny, uncorrected misunderstanding.
That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. 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. A ball of tension sits behind my ribs, a somatic echo of my mental confusion.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
On retreat, the discomfort seemed easier to bear because it was shared with others. Pain felt like a shared experience then. Now it feels personal, isolated. It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. 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 read a passage on the dangers of over-striving, and my mind screamed, "See? This is you!" The internal critic felt vindicated: "Finally, proof that you are a failure at meditation." There is a weird sense of "aha!" mixed with a "no!" 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 discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. 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 attempt to meet it with equanimity, but I cannot. I note my lack of equanimity, and then I start an intellectual debate about whether that noting was "correct."
The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breathing has become thin, yet I refrain from manipulating it. I’ve learned that forcing anything right now just adds another layer of tension to untangle later.
The clock ticks. I don’t look at it this time. A small more info mercy. My leg is going numb around the edges. Pins and needles creep in. I haven't moved yet, but I'm negotiating the exit in my mind. The clarity is gone. All the categories have collapsed into one big, messy, human experience.
I am not leaving this sit with an answer. The discomfort hasn't revealed a grand truth, and the uncertainty is still there. I am just here, acknowledging that "not knowing" is also the path, even if I don’t know exactly what to do with it yet. Continuing to breathe, continuing to hurt, continuing to exist. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.