Patrick Kearney lingers in my thoughts when the retreat glow has dissipated and the reality of chores, digital demands, and shifting moods takes over. The time is 2:07 a.m., and the silence in the house is heavy. I can hear the constant hum of the refrigerator and the intrusive ticking of the clock. 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. 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. This is the moment where practice becomes clumsy and uninspiring, and that is precisely where I find Patrick Kearney’s influence.
A coffee-stained mug sits in the sink, a task I delayed earlier today. 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 sacred space exists where the mind is suddenly exempt from the work of presence. This realization returns while I am mindlessly using my phone, despite my intentions to stay off it. I place the phone face down, only to pick it back up moments later. Discipline, it seems, is a jagged path.
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 this evening, I lost my temper over a minor issue. I replay it now, not because I want to, but because my mind does that thing where it pokes sore spots when everything else gets quiet. 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. This honest witnessing of discomfort feels more like authentic practice than any peaceful sit I had recently.
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. 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 click here cup. The warm water creates a faint steam that clouds my vision. I use my shirt to clear my glasses, aware of the lingering coffee aroma. These mundane facts feel significant in this quiet hour. My spine makes a sharp sound as I move; I feel a flash of pain, then a moment of amusement at my own state. The ego tries to narrate this as a profound experience, but I choose to stay with the raw reality instead.
I don’t feel clear. I don’t feel settled. I feel here. 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