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. The mind wastes no time in turning this physical state into a technical failure.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
"Chanmyay pain" shows up in my mind, a pre-packaged label for the screaming in my knee. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
Am I observing it correctly? Should I be noting it more clearly, or perhaps with less intensity? Am I feeding the pain by focusing on it so relentlessly? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding 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.
There is a fear that my entire meditative history is based on a tiny, uncorrected misunderstanding.
That thought hits harder than the physical pain in my knee. I catch myself subtly adjusting my posture, then freezing, then adjusting again because it feels uneven. 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!" “See? This explains everything. You’ve been doing it wrong.” The idea is a toxic blend of comfort and terror. I'm glad to have an answer, but terrified of how much work it will take to correct. I am sitting here in the grip of both emotions, my teeth grinding together. I relax it. It tightens again five breaths later.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The pain shifts slightly, which is more annoying than if it had stayed constant. I had hoped for read more 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."
“Chanmyay doubt” is not dramatic; it is a low, persistent hum asking, “Are you sure?” I don’t answer it, mostly because I don’t have an honest answer. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct 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 mercy. My limb is losing its feeling, replaced by the familiar static of a leg "falling asleep." I remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.
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 lack the tools to process it right now. Still breathing, still uncomfortable, still here. That, at least, is the truth of the moment.