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. The cold tiles beneath my feet surprise me, and I become aware of the subtle tightness in my shoulders, a sign of the stress I've been holding since morning. 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. 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.
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 see the procrastination, and then I see the ego's attempt to give this mundane event a profound meaning. 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. 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 set it aside, but the habit pulls me back almost instantly. It is clear that discipline is far from a linear journey.
My breathing is thin, and I constantly lose track of it. I find it again, only to let it slip away once more. 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 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 click here noise stops. I perceive a physical constriction in my chest as I recall the event, and I choose not to suppress or rationalize it. 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 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. 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.
At last, I wash the cup. The warm water creates a faint steam that clouds my vision. I wipe them on my shirt. The smell of coffee lingers. These tiny details feel weirdly loud at this 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’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