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. 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 am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. 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 consciously choose the word; it just manifested. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
I start questioning my technique: is my noting too sharp or too soft? Is the very act of observing it a form of subtle attachment? The actual ache in my knee is dwarfed by the massive cloud of analytical thoughts surrounding it.
The "Chanmyay Doubt" Loop
I make an effort to observe only the physical qualities: the heat and the pressure. Suddenly, doubt surfaces, cloaked in the language of a "reality check." "Chanmyay doubt." Maybe my viriya (effort) is too aggressive. Maybe I am under-efforting, or perhaps this simply isn't the right way to practice.
I worry that I missed a key point in the teachings years ago, and I've been building my practice on a foundation of error ever since.
That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. 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. Pain felt like a shared experience then. Now it feels personal, isolated. It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. The thought "this is wrong practice" repeats like a haunting mantra in my mind. 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. The internal critic felt vindicated: "Finally, proof that you are a failure at meditation." That thought brings a strange mixture of relief and panic. Relief because there is an explanation; panic because fixing it feels overwhelming. I am sitting here in the grip of both emotions, my teeth grinding together. 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 get more info shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I wanted it to be predictable; I wanted something solid to work with. Instead, it pulses, fades, and returns, as if it’s intentionally messing with me. I strive for a balanced mind, but I am clearly biased against the pain. 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?"
This uncertainty isn't a loud shout; it's a constant, quiet vibration asking if I really know what I'm doing. 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 clock ticks. I don’t look at it this time. A small mercy. My limb is losing its feeling, replaced by the familiar static of a leg "falling asleep." 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 just sit here, aware that this confusion is part of the territory too, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Just breathing, just aching, just staying. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.