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. 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. I am standing barefoot on a floor that is unexpectedly cold, and I realize my shoulders are hunched from a full day of subconscious tension. 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
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. It is in this awkward, unglamorous space that the lessons of Patrick Kearney become most relevant to my mind.
There’s a mug in the sink with dried coffee at the bottom. I told myself earlier I’d rinse it later. That delayed moment is here, and I am caught in the trap of thinking about mindfulness instead of actually practicing it. I notice that. Then I notice how fast I want to narrate it, make it mean something. 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 remember listening to Patrick Kearney talk once về thực hành bên ngoài các khóa thiền, and it didn’t land as some big insight. It felt more like a nagging truth: the fact that there is no special zone where mindfulness is "optional." 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 set it aside, but the habit pulls me back almost instantly. It is clear that discipline is far from a linear journey.
My breath is shallow. I keep forgetting it’s there. Then I remember. Then I forget again. 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, this version of me in worn-out clothes, distracted by domestic thoughts and trivial worries.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
I was irritable earlier today and reacted poorly to a small provocation. 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. There is a literal tightness in my heart as the memory repeats; I resist the urge to "solve" the feeling or make it go away. I let the discomfort remain, acknowledging it as it is—awkward and incomplete. This honest witnessing of discomfort feels more like authentic practice than any peaceful sit I had recently.
Patrick Kearney, for me, isn’t about intensity. It’s about not outsourcing mindfulness to special conditions. In all honesty, that is difficult, because controlled environments are far easier to manage. Real life is indifferent. It keeps moving. It asks get more info for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. This kind of discipline is silent and unremarkable, yet it is far more demanding than formal practice.
I clean the mug, feeling the warmth of the water and watching the steam rise against my glasses. 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. As I lean over, my back cracks audibly; I feel the discomfort and then find the humor in my own aging body. 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. In between wanting structure and knowing I can’t depend on it. 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