Patrick Kearney’s presence returns to my mind precisely when the spiritual high of a retreat ends and I am left to navigate the messy reality of ordinary life. The time is 2:07 a.m., and the silence in the house is heavy. I can hear the constant hum of the refrigerator and the intrusive ticking of the clock. The cold tiles beneath my feet surprise me, and I become aware of the subtle tightness in my shoulders, a sign of the stress I've been holding since morning. The memory of Patrick Kearney surfaces not because I am on the cushion, but because I am standing in the middle of an unmeditative moment. Without the support of a silent hall or a perfect setup, I am just a person standing in a kitchen, partially awake and partially lost in thought.
The Unromantic Discipline of Real Life
In the past, retreats felt like evidence of my progress. The routine of waking, sitting, and mindful eating seemed like the "real" practice. In a retreat, even the difficulties feel like part of a plan. I used to leave those environments feeling light and empowered, as if I had finally solved the puzzle. Then the routine of daily life returns: the chores, the emails, and the habit of half-listening while preparing a response. That’s when the discipline part gets awkward and unromantic, and that’s where Patrick Kearney dường như trú ngụ trong tâm thức tôi.
There’s a mug in the sink with dried coffee at the bottom. I told myself earlier I’d rinse it later. Later turned into now. Now turned into standing here thinking about mindfulness instead of doing the obvious thing. I observe that thought, and then I perceive my own desire to turn this ordinary moment into a significant narrative. I am fatigued—not in a spectacular way, but with a heavy dullness that makes laziness seem acceptable.
No Off Switch: Awareness Beyond the Cushion
I remember listening to Patrick Kearney talk once về thực hành bên ngoài các khóa thiền, and it didn’t land as some big insight. It felt more like a nagging truth: the fact that there is no special zone where mindfulness is "optional." There is no magical environment where mindfulness is naturally easier. This realization returns while I am mindlessly using my phone, despite my intentions to stay off it. I put it face down. Ten seconds later I flip it back. Discipline, dường như, không phải here là một đường thẳng.
My breath is shallow. I keep forgetting it’s there. Then I remember. Then I forget again. This isn’t serene. It’s clumsy. The body wants to slump. The mind wants to be entertained. I feel completely disconnected from the "ideal" version of myself that exists in a meditation hall, the one in old sweatpants, hair a mess, thinking about whether I left the light on in the other room.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
Earlier this evening, I lost my temper over a minor issue. My mind is obsessing over that moment, as it often does when I am alone in the silence. I feel a tightness in my chest when the memory loops. I don’t fix it. I don’t smooth it over. I let the discomfort remain, acknowledging it as it is—awkward and incomplete. This moment of difficult awareness feels more significant than any "perfect" meditation I've done in a retreat.
Patrick Kearney represents the challenge of maintaining awareness without relying on a supportive environment. Which sucks, honestly, because special conditions are easier. They hold you up. Daily life doesn’t care. Reality continues regardless of your state—it demands your presence even when you are frustrated, bored, or absent-minded. The rigor required in this space is subtle, unheroic, and often frustrating.
I finally rinse the mug. The water’s warm. Steam fogs my glasses a bit. I wipe them on my shirt. The smell of coffee lingers. These tiny details feel weirdly loud at this hour. My back cracks when I bend. I wince, then laugh quietly at myself. My mind attempts to make this a "spiritual moment," but I refuse to engage. Or perhaps I acknowledge it and then simply let it go.
I am not particularly calm or settled, but I am unmistakably here. In between wanting structure and knowing I can’t depend on it. Patrick Kearney fades back into the background like a reminder I didn’t ask for but keep needing, {especially when nothing about this looks like practice at all and yet somehow still is, unfinished, ordinary, happening anyway.|especially when my current reality looks nothing like "meditation," yet is the only practice that matters—flawed, mundane, and ongoing.|particularly now, when none of this feels "spiritual," y