Patrick Kearney lingers in my thoughts when the retreat glow has dissipated and the reality of chores, digital demands, and shifting moods takes over. 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 the routine of daily life returns: the chores, the emails, and the habit of half-listening while preparing a response. This is the moment where practice becomes clumsy and uninspiring, and that is precisely where I find Patrick Kearney’s influence.
I notice a dirty mug in the sink, a minor chore I chose to ignore until now. 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’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. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. No special zone where awareness magically behaves better. That memory floats up while I’m 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. The person I am during a retreat seems like a distant stranger to the person I am right now, the one standing here in messy clothes and unkempt hair, worrying about a light in another room.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
Earlier tonight I snapped at someone over something small. 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 just feel it sit there, awkward and unfinished. This honest witnessing of discomfort feels more like authentic practice than any peaceful sit I had recently.
Patrick Kearney represents the challenge of maintaining awareness without relying on a supportive environment. Frankly, this is a hard truth, as it is much easier to be mindful when the world is quiet. The ordinary world offers no such support. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. The discipline here is quieter. Less impressive. More annoying.
At last, I wash the cup. The warm water creates a faint more info steam that clouds my vision. 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 spine makes a sharp sound as I move; I feel a flash of pain, then a moment of amusement at my own state. 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. In between wanting structure and knowing I can’t depend on it. 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