I find myself thinking of Patrick Kearney whenever the temporary peace of a retreat vanishes and the mundane weight of emails, dishes, and daily stress demands my focus. 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’m barefoot on cold tile, which I forgot would be cold, and my shoulders are tight in that low-grade way that means I’ve been bracing all day without noticing. I think of Patrick Kearney not because I am engaged in formal practice, but specifically because I am not. Because nothing is set up. No bell. No cushion perfectly placed. Just me standing here, half-aware, half-elsewhere.
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 real life starts again. Laundry. Inbox. Someone talking to me while I’m already planning my reply. It is in this awkward, unglamorous space that the lessons of Patrick Kearney become most relevant to my mind.
I notice a dirty mug in the sink, a minor chore I chose to ignore until now. Later turned into now. Now turned into standing here thinking about mindfulness instead of doing the obvious thing. I notice that. Then I notice how fast I want to narrate it, make it mean something. I’m tired. Not dramatic tired. Just that dull heaviness behind the eyes. The kind that makes shortcuts sound reasonable.
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. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. No special zone where awareness magically behaves better. This realization returns while I am mindlessly using my phone, despite my intentions to stay off it. I set it aside, but the habit pulls me back almost instantly. It is clear that discipline is far from a linear journey.
My breath is barely noticeable; I catch it, lose it, and catch it again in a repetitive cycle. 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, this version of me in worn-out clothes, distracted by domestic thoughts and trivial worries.
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 Patrick Kearney 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 just feel it sit there, awkward and unfinished. 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. In all honesty, that is difficult, because controlled environments are far easier to manage. Real life is indifferent. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. The discipline here is quieter. Less impressive. More annoying.
At last, I wash the cup. The warm water creates a faint steam that clouds my vision. I dry my glasses on my clothes, noticing the faint scent of coffee. These small sensory details seem heightened in the middle of the night. 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