I find that the technical instructions of Chanmyay Satipatthana follow me into the sit, creating a strange friction between the theory of mindfulness and the raw, messy reality of my experience. It is just past 2 a.m., and there is a sharpness to the floor that I didn't anticipate. A blanket is draped over my shoulders—not because the room is freezing, but to buffer against that specific, bone-deep stillness of the night. 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. That thought annoys me more than the stiffness itself.
The looping Echo of "Simple" Instructions
The technical details of the Chanmyay method repeat in my head like fragmented directions. Observe this. Know that. Be clear. Be continuous. Simple words that somehow feel complicated the moment I try to apply them without a teacher sitting three meters away. In this isolation, the clarity of the teaching dissolves into a hazy echo, and my uncertainty takes over.
I attempt to watch the breath, but it feels constricted and jagged, as if resisting my attention. 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
I feel a lingering, dull pain in my left leg; I make an effort to observe it without flinching. The mind keeps drifting off to phrases I’ve read before, things about direct knowing, bare awareness, not adding stories. A quiet chuckle escapes me, and I immediately try to turn that sound into a meditative object. Sound. Vibration. Pleasant? Neutral? Who knows. It disappears before I decide.
I spent some time earlier reviewing my notes on the practice, which gave me a false sense of mastery. Now that I am actually sitting, my "knowledge" is useless. The body's pain is louder than the books. The physical reality of my knee is far more compelling than any diagram. I search for a reason for the pain, but the silence offers no comfort.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
My posture is a constant struggle; I relax my shoulders, but they reflexively tighten again. The breath is uneven, and I find myself becoming frustrated. I observe the frustration, then observe the observer. I grow weary of this constant internal audit. In these moments, the Chanmyay instructions feel like a burden. They offer no consolation. There is no "it's okay" in this tradition. There is only the instruction to see what is true, over and over.
A mosquito is click here buzzing nearby; I endure the sound for as long as I can before finally striking out. Annoyance. Relief. A flash of guilt. All of it comes and goes fast. I don’t keep up. I never keep up. I see that I am failing to be "continuous," and the thought is just a simple, unadorned fact.
Experience Isn't Neat
Satipatthana sounds clean when explained. Four foundations. Clear categories. But experience isn’t neat. It overlaps. I can't tell where the "knee pain" ends and the "irritation" begins. My thoughts are literally part of my stiff neck. I sit here trying not to organize it, trying not to narrate, and still narrating anyway. My mind is stubborn like that.
Against my better judgment, I look at the clock. Eight minutes have passed. Time passes whether I watch it or not. The ache in my thigh shifts slightly. I find the change in pain frustrating; I wanted a solid, static object to "study" with my mind. Instead it keeps changing like it doesn’t care what framework I’m using.
The "explanations" finally stop when the physical sensations become too loud to ignore. 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 don't have a better "theory" of meditation than when I started. I am suspended between the "memory" of how to practice and the "act" of actually practicing. sitting in this unfinished mess, letting it be messy, because that’s what’s happening whether I approve of it or not.