It is deep into the night, 2:18 a.m., and my right knee has begun its familiar, needy throbbing; it’s a level of discomfort that sits right on the edge of being unbearable. 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 only break in the silence is the ghost of a motorbike engine somewhere in the distance. I am sweating slightly, despite the air not being particularly warm. The mind wastes no time in turning this physical state into a technical failure.
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."
The doubt begins: is my awareness penetrative enough, or am I just thinking about the pain? Am I feeding the pain by focusing on it so relentlessly? The physical discomfort itself feels almost secondary to the swarm of thoughts orbiting 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. Maybe I'm trying too hard, forcing a clarity that isn't there. Perhaps I'm being too passive, or I've missed a fundamental step in the instructions.
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 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. There’s a tight ball in my chest—not exactly pain, but a dense unease.
Communal Endurance vs. Private Failure
I remember times on retreat where pain felt manageable because it was communal. Back then, the pain was "just pain"; now, it feels like "my failure." 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. I worry that I am just practicing my own neuroses instead of the Dhamma.
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. 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!" Relief that the problem has a name, but panic because the solution seems impossible. Sitting here now, I feel both at once. My jaw is clenched. I relax it. It tightens again five breaths later.
The Shifting Tide of Discomfort
The discomfort changes its quality, a shift that I find incredibly frustrating. I was looking for something stable to observe; I wanted a "fixed" object. 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 get more info my lack of equanimity, and then I start an intellectual debate about whether that noting was "correct."
The doubt isn't theatrical; it's a subtle background noise that never stops questioning my integrity. I offer no reply, primarily because I am genuinely unsure. My breath is shallow, but I don’t correct 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 stay. Or I hesitate. Or I stay while planning to move. It’s all blurry. All the categories have collapsed into one big, messy, human experience.
I don’t resolve anything tonight. The pain doesn’t teach me a lesson. The doubt doesn’t disappear. 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. Which feels like the only honest thing happening right now.