The precise explanations of the Chanmyay method loop in my mind, making me question every movement and sensation as I struggle to stay present. The clock reads 2:04 a.m., and the ground beneath me seems unexpectedly chilled. I’m sitting with a blanket around my shoulders even though it’s not really cold, just that late-night chill that gets into your bones if you stay still too long. My neck is tight; I move it, hear a small crack, and then immediately feel a surge of doubt about the "correctness" of that movement. I find the mental judgment far more taxing than the actual stiffness.
The looping Echo of "Simple" Instructions
The technical details of the Chanmyay method repeat in my head like fragmented directions. Observe this. Know that. Be clear. Be continuous. The instructions sound easy until you are alone in the dark, trying to bridge the gap between "knowing" and "doing." Alone like this, the explanations don’t sound firm anymore. They blur. They echo. And my mind fills in the gaps with doubt.
I focus on the breathing, but it seems to react to being watched, becoming shallow and forced. My chest tightens a bit. I label it mentally, then immediately question whether I labeled too fast. Or too slow. Or mechanically. That spiral is familiar. It shows up a lot when I remember how precise Chanmyay explanations are supposed to be. Precision turns into pressure when no one’s there to correct you.
Knowledge Evaporates When the Body Speaks
I feel a lingering, dull pain in my left leg; I make an effort to observe it without flinching. My thoughts repeatedly wander to spiritual clichés: "direct knowing," "bare attention," "dropping the narrative." I laugh quietly because even that laughter turns into something to watch. I try to categorize the laugh—is it neutral or pleasant?—but it's gone before the mind can file it away.
I spent some time earlier reviewing my notes on the practice, which gave me a false sense of mastery. Sitting now, that confidence is gone. Knowledge evaporates fast when the body starts complaining. The knee speaks louder than the books. The mind wants reassurance that I’m doing this correctly, that this pain fits into the explanation somewhere. I don’t find it.
The Heavy Refusal to Comfort
I catch my shoulders tensing toward my ears; I release them, only for the tension more info to return moments later. The breath stutters. I feel irritation rising for no clear reason. I recognize it. Then I recognize recognizing it. Eventually, the act of "recognizing" feels like an exhausting chore. In these moments, the Chanmyay instructions feel like a burden. They offer no consolation. There is no "it's okay" in this tradition. There is only the instruction to see what is true, over and over.
I hear the high-pitched drone of an insect. I hold my position, testing my resolve, then eventually I swat at it. Annoyance. Relief. A flash of guilt. All of it comes and goes fast. I don’t keep up. I never keep up. I see that I am failing to be "continuous," and the thought is just a simple, unadorned fact.
Experience Isn't Neat
The diagrams make the practice look organized: body, feelings, mind, and dhammas. But experience isn’t neat. It overlaps. Physical pain is interwoven with frustration, and my thoughts are physically manifest as muscle tightness. I try to just feel without the "story," but my mind is a professional narrator and refuses to quit.
I break my own rule and check the time: it's 2:12 a.m. Time passes whether I watch it or not. The ache in my thigh shifts slightly. The shift irritates me more than the ache itself. I wanted it stable. Predictable. Observationally satisfying. Instead, it remains fluid, entirely unconcerned with my spiritual labels.
The "explanations" finally stop when the physical sensations become too loud to ignore. Heat. Pressure. Tingling. Breath brushing past the nose. I stay with what’s loudest. Then I drift. Then I come back. No clarity. No summary.
I don’t feel like I understand anything better tonight. I just feel here, caught between instruction and experience, between remembering and actually feeling, sitting in this unfinished mess, letting it be messy, because that’s what’s happening whether I approve of it or not.