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’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. Patrick Kearney pops into my head not because I’m meditating right now, but because I’m not. 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
Retreats used to feel like proof. Like I was doing the thing. You wake up, you sit, you walk, you eat quietly, repeat. 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. But then reality intervenes—the laundry, the digital noise, and the social pressure to react rather than listen. 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 turned into now. Now turned into standing here thinking about mindfulness instead of doing the obvious thing. I see the procrastination, and then I see the ego's attempt to give this mundane event a profound meaning. 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 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 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 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. This isn’t serene. It’s clumsy. The body wants to slump. The mind wants to be entertained. The person I am during a retreat seems like a distant stranger to the person I am right now, 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 represents the challenge of maintaining awareness without relying on a supportive environment. Frankly, this is a hard truth, as it is much easier to be mindful when the world is quiet. The ordinary world offers no such support. Reality continues regardless of your state—it demands your presence even when you are frustrated, bored, or absent-minded. The discipline here is quieter. Less impressive. More annoying.
I clean the mug, feeling the warmth of the water and watching the steam rise against my glasses. 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. 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 don’t feel clear. I don’t feel here settled. I feel here. Caught between the desire for an organized path and the realization that life is unpredictable. Patrick Kearney fades back into the background like a reminder I didn’t ask for but keep needing, {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