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. The only break in the silence is the ghost of a motorbike engine somewhere in the distance. 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" shows up in my mind, a pre-packaged label for the screaming in my knee. It's an uninvited guest that settles into the awareness. The sensation becomes "pain-plus-meaning."
Am I observing it correctly? Should I be noting it more clearly, or perhaps with less intensity? 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 attempt to stay with the raw sensation: heat, pressure, throbbing. 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.
There is a fear that my entire meditative history is based on a tiny, uncorrected misunderstanding.
That specific doubt is far more painful than the throbbing in my joint. I find myself fidgeting with my spine, stopping, and then moving again because I can't find the center. 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 recall how much simpler it was to sit with pain when I was surrounded by a silent group of practitioners. Pain felt like a shared experience then. Now it feels personal, isolated. It feels like a secret exam that I am currently bombing. “Chanmyay wrong practice” echoes in my head—not as a statement, but as a fear. The idea that I am reinforcing old patterns instead of uprooting them.
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." There is a weird sense of "aha!" mixed with a "no!" 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 consciously soften my face, only for the tension to return almost immediately.
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 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. The air is barely moving in my chest, but I leave it alone. I know from experience that any attempt to force "rightness" will only create more knots to undo.
I hear the ticking, but I keep my eyes closed. It’s a tiny victory. My leg is going numb around the edges. Pins and needles creep Chanmyay Sayadaw in. I remain, though a part of me is already preparing to shift. It’s all very confused. All the categories have collapsed into one big, messy, human experience.
There is no closure this evening. The pain remains a mystery, and the doubt stays firmly in place. I am just here, acknowledging that "not knowing" is also the path, even if I lack the tools to process it right now. Continuing to breathe, continuing to hurt, continuing to exist. And perhaps that simple presence is the only thing that isn't a lie.