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. 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. Patrick Kearney pops into my head not because I’m meditating right now, but because I’m not. 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
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.
A coffee-stained mug sits in the sink, a task I delayed earlier today. "Later" has arrived, and I find myself philosophizing about awareness rather than simply washing the dish. I notice that. Then I notice how fast I want to narrate it, make it mean something. I am fatigued—not in a spectacular way, but with a heavy dullness that makes laziness seem acceptable.
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. 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. That memory floats up while I’m scrolling my phone even though I told myself I wouldn’t. 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. 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. 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. Which sucks, honestly, because special conditions are easier. They hold you up. Daily life doesn’t care. Daily life persists, requiring your attention even when you are at your least mindful and most distracted. The discipline here is quieter. Less impressive. More annoying.
I finally rinse the mug. The water’s warm. Steam fogs my glasses a bit. 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 back cracks when I bend. I wince, then laugh quietly at myself. The mind wants to turn that into a moment. I don’t let it. Or maybe I do and just don’t chase it far.
I am not particularly calm or settled, but I am unmistakably here. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. Patrick Kearney’s influence settles back into the background, a silent guide that I didn't here 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