It is deep into the night, 2:18 a.m., and my right knee has begun its familiar, needy throbbing; it’s a level of discomfort that sits right on the edge of being unbearable. 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
The term "Chanmyay pain" arises as a technical tag for the discomfort. I didn’t ask for it; it simply arrives. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
The doubt begins: is my awareness penetrative enough, or am I just thinking about the pain? 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 make an effort to observe only the physical qualities: the heat and the pressure. Then the doubt creeps in quietly, disguised as a reasonable inquiry. Maybe I'm trying too hard, forcing a clarity that isn't there. 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 thought hits harder than the physical pain in my knee. I start to adjust my back, catch the movement, and then adjust again because I'm convinced I'm sitting crooked. My back tightens in response, as if it’s offended I didn't ask permission. There’s a tight ball in my chest—not exactly pain, but a dense unease.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
On retreat, the discomfort seemed easier to bear more info because it was shared with others. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. 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. “See? This explains everything. You’ve been doing it wrong.” 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 relax it. It tightens again five breaths later.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The ache moves to a different spot, which is far more irritating than a steady sensation. I had hoped for a consistent sensation that I could systematically note. It feels like a moving target—disappearing only to strike again elsewhere. I try to maintain neutrality, but I fail. I notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just more thinking.
This uncertainty isn't a loud shout; it's a constant, quiet vibration asking if I really know what I'm doing. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct it. I know from experience that any attempt to force "rightness" will only create more knots to undo.
I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny victory. My leg is going numb around the edges. Pins and needles creep in. I stay. Or I hesitate. Or I stay while planning to move. It’s all blurry. All the categories have collapsed into one big, messy, human experience.
I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. I am simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I don't have a strategy for this mess. Still breathing, still uncomfortable, still here. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.