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. 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 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. The mind wastes no time in turning this physical state into a technical failure.
The Anatomy of Pain-Plus-Meaning
Chanmyay pain. That phrase appears like a label affixed to the physical sensation. 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? Am I feeding the pain by focusing on it so relentlessly? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I try to focus on the bare data: the warmth, the tightness, the rhythmic pulsing. 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.
Maybe I misunderstood the instructions years ago and everything since then has been built on a slight misalignment that no one warned me about.
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. A ball of tension sits behind my ribs, a somatic echo of my mental confusion.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I recall how much simpler it was to sit with pain when I was surrounded by a silent group of practitioners. 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 idea that I am reinforcing old patterns instead of uprooting them.
The Trap of "Proof" and False Relief
I encountered a teaching on "wrong effort" today, and my ego immediately used it as evidence against me. “See? This explains everything. You’ve been doing it wrong.” That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief because there is an explanation; panic because fixing it feels overwhelming. The tension is palpable as I sit, my jaw locked tight. I release the clench, but it's back within a minute. It’s an automatic reflex.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. 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 try to maintain neutrality, but I fail. I note my lack of equanimity, and then I start an intellectual debate about whether that noting was "correct."
This uncertainty isn't a loud shout; it's a constant, quiet vibration asking if I really know what I'm doing. I remain silent in the face of the question, because "I don't know" is the only truth I have. My breathing has become thin, yet I refrain from manipulating it. Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
The clock ticks. I don’t look at it this time. A small mercy. The sensation of numbness is spreading through my foot, followed by the "prickling" of pins and needles. I remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. Wrong practice, right practice, pain, doubt—all mashed together in this very human mess.
I am not leaving this sit with an answer. The discomfort hasn't revealed a grand truth, and the uncertainty is still there. I am Chanmyay Sayadaw simply present with the fact that confusion is also an object of mindfulness, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Continuing to breathe, continuing to hurt, continuing to exist. That, at least, is the truth of the moment.