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. 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. 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. 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
Retreats used to feel like proof. Like I was doing the thing. You wake up, you sit, you walk, you eat quietly, repeat. Even the discomfort feels clean. Organized. I come home from those places buzzing, light, convinced I’ve cracked something. 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.
I notice a dirty mug in the sink, a minor chore I chose to ignore until now. "Later" has arrived, and I find myself philosophizing about awareness rather than simply washing the dish. I observe that thought, and then I perceive my own desire to turn this ordinary moment into a significant narrative. Fatigue has set in, a simple heaviness that makes me want to choose the easiest, least mindful path.
No Off Switch: Awareness Beyond the Cushion
I recall a talk by Patrick Kearney regarding practice in daily life, and at the time, it didn't feel more info like a profound revelation. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. No sacred space exists where the mind is suddenly exempt from the work of presence. That memory floats up while I’m scrolling my phone even though I told myself I wouldn’t. I put it face down. Ten seconds later I flip it back. Discipline, dường như, không phải là một đường thẳng.
My breath is shallow. I keep forgetting it’s there. Then I remember. Then I forget again. This is not a peaceful state; it is a struggle. My body is tired, and my mind is searching for a distraction. 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 in the silence. There is a literal tightness in my heart as the memory repeats; I resist the urge to "solve" the feeling or make it go away. I let the discomfort remain, acknowledging it as it is—awkward and incomplete. 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. Daily life persists, requiring your attention even when you are at your least mindful and most distracted. 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 quiet 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. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. The thought of Patrick Kearney recedes, like a necessary but uninvited reminder of the work ahead, {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