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’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. 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
I used to view retreats as the benchmark of success, where the cycle of formal meditation and silent movement felt like true achievement. 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. That’s when the discipline part gets awkward and unromantic, and that’s where Patrick Kearney dường như trú ngụ trong tâm thức tôi.
A coffee-stained mug sits in the sink, a task I delayed earlier today. "Later" has arrived, and I find myself philosophizing about awareness rather than simply washing the dish. I observe that thought, and then I perceive my own desire to turn this ordinary moment into a significant narrative. 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. There is no magical environment where mindfulness is naturally easier. I think of this while I am distracted by my screen, even though I had promised myself I would be done for the night. I place the phone face down, only to pick it back up moments later. Discipline, it seems, is a jagged path.
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, 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 feel a tightness in my chest when the memory loops. I don’t fix it. I don’t smooth it over. 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. Daily life persists, requiring your attention even when you are at your least mindful and most distracted. 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 spine makes a sharp sound as I move; I feel a flash of pain, then a moment of amusement at my own state. My mind attempts to make this a "spiritual moment," but I refuse to engage. Or perhaps I acknowledge it more info and then simply let it go.
I am not particularly calm or settled, but I am unmistakably here. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. 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