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 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. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. What was once just sensation is now "pain-plus-interpretation."
I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? 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 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. "Chanmyay doubt." Maybe my viriya (effort) is too aggressive. 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.
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. The tension in my back increases, a physical rebellion against my lack of trust. I feel a knot of anxiety forming in my chest, a physical manifestation of my doubt.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. 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. “Chanmyay wrong practice” echoes in my head—not as a statement, but as a fear. The fear is that I'm just hardening my ego rather than dissolving it.
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!" It felt like a definitive verdict: "You have been practicing incorrectly this whole time." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. I am sitting here in the grip of both emotions, my teeth grinding together. 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 was looking for something stable to observe; I wanted a "fixed" object. Instead, it pulses, fades, and returns, as if it’s intentionally messing with me. 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."
“Chanmyay doubt” is not dramatic; it is a low, persistent hum asking, “Are you sure?” I remain silent in the face of the question, because "I don't know" is the only truth I have. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct it. here Experience has taught me that "fixing" the moment only creates a new layer of artificiality.
The sound of the clock continues, but I resist the urge to check the time. 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.
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, at least, is the truth of the moment.