I find myself thinking of Patrick Kearney whenever the temporary peace of a retreat vanishes and the mundane weight of emails, dishes, and daily stress demands my focus. 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. 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
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 physical pain in those settings feels purposeful and structured. I would return home feeling luminous, certain that I had reached a new level of understanding. 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.
I notice a dirty mug in the sink, a minor chore I chose to ignore until now. "Later" has arrived, and I find myself philosophizing about awareness rather than simply washing the dish. I observe that thought, and then I perceive my own desire to turn this ordinary moment into a significant narrative. 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. Instead, it felt like a subtle click here 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 place the phone face down, only to pick it back up moments later. Discipline, it seems, is a jagged path.
My breath is barely noticeable; I catch it, lose it, and catch it again in a repetitive cycle. There is no serenity here, only clumsiness. My posture wants to collapse, and my mind craves stimulation. I feel completely disconnected from the "ideal" version of myself that exists in a meditation hall, the one in old sweatpants, hair a mess, thinking about whether I left the light on in the other room.
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 simply allow the feeling to exist, raw and unresolved. 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. 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 wipe them on my shirt. The smell of coffee lingers. These tiny details feel weirdly loud at this hour. 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 don’t feel clear. I don’t feel settled. I feel here. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. 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