The clock reads 2:18 a.m., and a persistent, dull ache in my right knee is competing for my attention—not enough to force a shift, but plenty to destroy my calm. The floor feels significantly harder than it did yesterday, an observation that makes no logical sense but feels entirely authentic. Aside from the faint, fading drone of a far-off motorcycle, the room is perfectly quiet. 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
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."
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. Then the doubt creeps in quietly, disguised as a reasonable inquiry. 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
On retreat, the discomfort seemed easier to bear because it was shared with others. 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. The thought "this is wrong practice" repeats like a haunting mantra in my mind. 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. It felt like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." There is a weird sense of "aha!" mixed with a "no!" 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 release the clench, but it's back within a minute. It’s an automatic reflex.
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. Rather, it ebbs and flows, feeling like a dynamic enemy that is playing games with my focus. I try to maintain neutrality, but I fail. I see my own reaction, and then I get lost in the thought: "Is noticing the reaction part of the path, or just more ego?"
The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily here because I am genuinely unsure. The air is barely moving in my chest, but I leave it alone. I’ve learned that forcing anything right now just adds another layer of tension to untangle later.
The clock ticks. I don’t look at it this time. A small mercy. 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. The "technical" and the "personal" have fused into a single, uncomfortable reality.
I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. I am just here, acknowledging that "not knowing" is also the path, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.