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. I find myself sweating a bit, even though the night air is relatively temperate. 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. 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? Or am I clinging to the sensation by paying it so much attention? The raw pain is nothing compared to the complicated mental drama that has built up around it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I attempt to stay with the raw sensation: heat, pressure, throbbing. Suddenly, doubt surfaces, cloaked in the language of a "reality check." Maybe I'm trying too hard, forcing a clarity that isn't there. 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. The tension in my back increases, a physical rebellion against my lack of trust. There’s a tight ball in my chest—not exactly pain, but a dense unease.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I recall how much simpler it read more was to sit with pain when I was surrounded by a silent group of practitioners. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." Like a test I am failing in private. I can't stop the internal whisper that tells me I'm reinforcing the wrong habits. I worry that I am just practicing my own neuroses instead of the Dhamma.
The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
Earlier today I read something about wrong effort, and my mind seized it like proof. It felt like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. 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 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. 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 notice the failure. Then I wonder if noticing the failure is progress or just more thinking.
“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 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. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. 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. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.