Patrick Kearney lingers in my thoughts when the retreat glow has dissipated and the reality of chores, digital demands, and shifting moods takes over. It’s 2:07 a.m. and the house feels like it’s holding its breath. The fridge hums. The clock ticks too loud. 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. Without the support of a silent hall or a perfect setup, I am just a person standing in a kitchen, partially awake and partially lost in thought.
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. But then reality intervenes—the laundry, the digital noise, and the social pressure to react rather than listen. This is the moment where practice becomes clumsy and uninspiring, and that is precisely where I find Patrick Kearney’s influence.
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. 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 irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. There is no magical environment where mindfulness is naturally easier. 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 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, this version of me in worn-out clothes, distracted by domestic thoughts and trivial worries.
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 noise stops. 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. That feels closer to real practice than anything that happened on a cushion last month.
Patrick Kearney represents the challenge of maintaining awareness without relying on a supportive environment. Which sucks, honestly, because special conditions are easier. They hold you up. Daily life doesn’t care. Reality continues regardless of your state—it demands your presence even when you are frustrated, bored, or absent-minded. 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 here 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. 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. In between wanting structure and knowing I can’t depend on it. 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