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 is past 2 a.m., and the stillness of the home feels expectant. Every small sound—the fridge’s vibration, the clock’s steady beat—seems amplified. 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. 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. Later turned into now. Now turned into standing here thinking about mindfulness instead of doing the obvious thing. 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 once heard Patrick Kearney discuss mindfulness outside of formal settings, and it didn't strike me as a "spiritual" moment. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. No special zone where awareness magically behaves better. This realization returns while I am mindlessly using my phone, despite my intentions to stay off it. 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. This is not a peaceful state; it is a struggle. My body is tired, and my mind is searching for a distraction. I feel completely disconnected from the "ideal" version of myself that exists in a meditation hall, 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. My mind is obsessing over that moment, as it often does when I am alone in the silence. 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. 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. Which sucks, honestly, because special conditions are easier. They more info hold you up. Daily life doesn’t care. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. 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. 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 lack a sense of total clarity or peace, yet I am undeniably present. Caught between the desire for an organized path and the realization that life is unpredictable. 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