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’s 2:07 a.m. and the house feels like it’s holding its breath. The fridge hums. The clock ticks too loud. 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. The memory of Patrick Kearney surfaces not because I am on the cushion, but because I am standing in the middle of an unmeditative moment. 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
In the past, retreats felt like evidence of my progress. The routine of waking, sitting, and mindful eating seemed like the "real" practice. Even the discomfort feels clean. Organized. I come home from those places buzzing, light, convinced I’ve cracked something. 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. 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. 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 once heard Patrick Kearney discuss mindfulness outside of formal settings, and it didn't strike me as a "spiritual" moment. 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, read more even though I had promised myself I would be done for the night. 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. 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
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 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. 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 finally rinse the mug. The water’s warm. Steam fogs my glasses a bit. I use my shirt to clear my glasses, aware of the lingering coffee aroma. These mundane facts feel significant in this quiet hour. 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 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’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