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. The ground seems more unforgiving tonight than it was twenty-four hours ago, a physical impossibility that I nonetheless believe completely. The room is silent except for the distant sound of a motorbike that lingers on the edge of hearing. A thin layer of perspiration is forming, though the room temperature is quite cool. My mind immediately categorizes this as a problem to be solved.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
The term "Chanmyay pain" arises as a technical tag for the discomfort. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. What was once just sensation is now "pain-plus-interpretation."
I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? 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 try to focus on the bare data: the warmth, the tightness, the rhythmic pulsing. Then, uncertainty arrives on silent feet, pretending to be a helpful technical question. Chanmyay doubt. Perhaps I am over-efforting. Perhaps I'm being too passive, or I've missed a fundamental step in the instructions.
Maybe I misunderstood the instructions years ago and everything since then has been built on a slight misalignment that no one warned me about.
The fear of "wrong practice" is much sharper than any somatic sensation. I find myself fidgeting with my spine, stopping, and then moving again because I can't find the center. My back tightens in response, as if it’s offended I didn't ask permission. A ball of tension click here sits behind my ribs, a somatic echo of my mental confusion.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I recall how much simpler it was to sit with pain when I was surrounded by a silent group of practitioners. In a hall, the ache felt like part of the human condition; here, it feels like my own personal burden. Like a solitary trial that I am proving to be unworthy of. I can't stop the internal whisper that tells me I'm reinforcing the wrong habits. The fear is that I'm just hardening my ego rather than dissolving it.
The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
Earlier today I read something about wrong effort, and my mind seized it like proof. The internal critic felt vindicated: "Finally, proof that you are a failure at meditation." The idea is a toxic blend of comfort and terror. Relief that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. The tension is palpable as I sit, my jaw locked tight. 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 wanted it to be predictable; I wanted something solid to work with. Instead, it pulses, fades, and returns, as if it’s intentionally messing with me. 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 don’t answer it, mostly because I don’t have an honest answer. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct it. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
The sound of the clock continues, but I resist the urge to check the time. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I haven't moved yet, but I'm negotiating the exit in my mind. The clarity is gone. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
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. Still breathing, still uncomfortable, still here. That, at least, is the truth of the moment.