Patrick Kearney lingers in my thoughts when the retreat glow has dissipated and the reality of chores, digital demands, and shifting moods takes over. It is past 2 a.m., and the stillness of the home feels expectant. Every small sound—the fridge’s vibration, the clock’s steady beat—seems amplified. I am standing barefoot on a floor that is unexpectedly cold, and I realize my shoulders are hunched from a full day of subconscious tension. 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
I used to view retreats as the benchmark of success, where the cycle of formal meditation and silent movement felt like true achievement. Even the physical pain in those settings feels purposeful and structured. I would return home feeling luminous, certain that I had reached a new level of understanding. Then real life starts again. Laundry. Inbox. Someone talking to me while I’m already planning my reply. That’s when the discipline part gets awkward and unromantic, and that’s where Patrick Kearney dường như trú ngụ trong tâm thức tôi.
A coffee-stained mug sits in the sink, a task I delayed earlier today. "Later" has arrived, and I find myself philosophizing about awareness rather than simply washing the dish. I see the procrastination, and then I see the ego's attempt to give this mundane event a profound meaning. 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 once heard Patrick Kearney discuss mindfulness outside of formal settings, and it didn't strike me as a "spiritual" moment. 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. I think of this while I am distracted by my screen, even though I had promised myself I would be done for the night. I put it face down. Ten seconds later I flip it back. Discipline, dường như, không phải là một đường thẳng.
My breathing is thin, and I constantly lose track of it. I find it again, only to let it slip away once more. This isn’t serene. It’s clumsy. The body wants to slump. The mind wants to be entertained. Retreat versions of me feel very far away from this version, the one standing here in messy clothes and unkempt hair, worrying about a light in another room.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
I was irritable earlier today and reacted poorly to a small provocation. My mind is obsessing over that moment, as it often does when I am alone in the silence. I perceive a physical constriction in my chest as I recall the event, and I choose not to suppress or rationalize it. I simply allow the feeling to exist, raw and unresolved. This honest witnessing of discomfort feels more like authentic practice than any peaceful sit I had recently.
Patrick Kearney, for me, isn’t about intensity. It’s about not outsourcing mindfulness to special conditions. 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 use my shirt to clear my glasses, aware of the lingering coffee aroma. These mundane facts feel significant in this more info quiet hour. As I lean over, my back cracks audibly; I feel the discomfort and then find the humor in my own aging body. 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 lack a sense of total clarity or peace, yet I am undeniably present. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. Patrick Kearney’s influence settles back into the background, a silent guide that I didn't seek but clearly require, {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