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. 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. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. My consciousness instantly labels these sensations as "incorrect."
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
"Chanmyay pain" shows up in my mind, a pre-packaged label for the screaming in my knee. I didn’t ask for it; it simply arrives. What was once just sensation is now "pain-plus-interpretation."
Am I observing it correctly? Should I be noting it more clearly, or perhaps with less intensity? Is the very act of observing it a form of subtle attachment? The physical discomfort itself feels almost secondary to the swarm of thoughts orbiting 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. Perhaps I am over-efforting. 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 catch myself subtly adjusting my posture, then freezing, then adjusting again because it feels uneven. My muscles seize up, reacting to the forced adjustments with a sense of protest. A ball of tension sits behind my ribs, a somatic echo of my mental confusion.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. Pain felt like a shared experience then. Now it feels personal, isolated. Like a test I am failing in private. 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." 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. 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 pain shifts slightly, which is more annoying than if it had stayed constant. 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 strive for a balanced mind, but I am clearly biased against the pain. 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 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 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. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.
There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. I just sit here, aware that this confusion is part of the territory too, even if I don’t know exactly what to do with it yet. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. That, click here at least, is the truth of the moment.