I find myself thinking of Patrick Kearney whenever the temporary peace of a retreat vanishes and the mundane weight of emails, dishes, and daily stress demands my focus. It’s 2:07 a.m. and the house feels like it’s holding its breath. The fridge hums. The clock ticks too loud. 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. 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
I used to view retreats as the benchmark of success, where the cycle of formal meditation and silent movement felt like true achievement. Even the physical pain in those settings feels purposeful and structured. I would return home feeling luminous, certain that I had reached a new level of understanding. Then real life starts again. Laundry. Inbox. Someone talking to me while I’m already planning my reply. It is in this awkward, unglamorous space that the lessons of Patrick Kearney become most relevant to my mind.
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 see the procrastination, and then I see the ego's attempt to give this mundane event a profound meaning. 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 recall a talk by Patrick Kearney regarding practice in daily life, and at the time, it didn't feel like a profound revelation. It landed like a mild discomfort. Like, oh right, there’s no off switch. No sacred space exists where the mind is suddenly exempt from the work of presence. That memory floats up while I’m more info 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 breathing is thin, and I constantly lose track of it. I find it again, only to let it slip away once more. 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, the one standing here in messy clothes and unkempt hair, worrying about a light in another room.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
Earlier this evening, I lost my temper over a minor issue. 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 simply allow the feeling to exist, raw and unresolved. This moment of difficult awareness feels more significant than any "perfect" meditation I've done in a retreat.
Patrick Kearney represents the challenge of maintaining awareness without relying on a supportive environment. 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.
I clean the mug, feeling the warmth of the water and watching the steam rise against my glasses. 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. 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 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 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