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’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. 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 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. 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 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. No sacred space exists where the mind is suddenly exempt from the work of presence. 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 put it face down. Ten seconds later I flip it back. Discipline, dường như, không phải là một đường thẳng.
My breath is shallow. I keep forgetting it’s there. Then I remember. Then I forget again. There is no serenity here, only clumsiness. My posture wants to collapse, and my mind craves stimulation. 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 feel a tightness in my chest when the memory loops. I don’t fix it. I don’t smooth it over. I just feel it sit there, awkward and unfinished. That feels closer to real practice than anything that happened on a cushion last month.
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 more info irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. The discipline here is quieter. Less impressive. More annoying.
I finally rinse the mug. The water’s warm. Steam fogs my glasses a bit. 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. My back cracks when I bend. I wince, then laugh quietly at myself. My mind attempts to make this a "spiritual moment," but I refuse to engage. Or perhaps I acknowledge it and then simply let it go.
I don’t feel clear. I don’t feel settled. I feel here. Caught between the desire for an organized path and the realization that life is unpredictable. The thought of Patrick Kearney recedes, like a necessary but uninvited reminder of the work ahead, {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