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. I think of Patrick Kearney not because I am engaged in formal practice, but specifically because I am not. There are no formal structures here—no meditation bell, no carefully arranged seat. It is just me, caught between presence and distraction.
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. Even the discomfort feels clean. Organized. I come home from those places buzzing, light, convinced I’ve cracked something. 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" 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. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. No special zone where awareness magically behaves better. That memory floats up while I’m scrolling my phone even though I told myself I wouldn’t. 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. Retreat versions of me feel very far away from this version, 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 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 perceive a physical constriction in my chest as I recall the event, and I choose not to suppress or rationalize it. I just feel it sit there, awkward and unfinished. That feels closer to real practice than anything that happened on a cushion last month.
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. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. The rigor required in this space is subtle, unheroic, and often frustrating.
At last, I wash the cup. The warm water creates a faint steam that clouds my vision. 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. The mind wants to turn that into a moment. I don’t let it. Or maybe I do more info and just don’t chase it far.
I am not particularly calm or settled, but I am unmistakably 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