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
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.
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 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 once heard Patrick Kearney discuss mindfulness outside of formal settings, and it didn't strike me as a "spiritual" moment. It landed like a mild discomfort. Like, oh right, there’s no off switch. No special zone where awareness magically behaves better. 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 set it aside, but the habit pulls me back almost instantly. It is clear that discipline is far from a linear journey.
My breathing is thin, and I constantly lose track of it. I find it again, only to let it slip away once more. There is no serenity here, only clumsiness. My posture wants to collapse, and my mind craves stimulation. I feel completely disconnected from the "ideal" version of myself that exists in a meditation hall, the one standing here in messy clothes Patrick Kearney and unkempt hair, worrying about a light in another room.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
Earlier tonight I snapped at someone over something small. The memory returns now, driven by the mind's tendency to dwell on regrets once the external noise stops. 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.
To me, Patrick Kearney’s message is not about extreme effort, but about the refusal to limit mindfulness to "ideal" settings. In all honesty, that is difficult, because controlled environments are far easier to manage. Real life is indifferent. Daily life persists, requiring your attention even when you are at your least mindful and most distracted. 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. My back cracks when I bend. I wince, then laugh quietly at myself. The mind wants to turn that into a moment. I don’t let it. Or maybe I do and just don’t chase it far.
I don’t feel clear. I don’t feel settled. I feel here. Caught between the desire for an organized path and the realization that life is unpredictable. 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