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 am standing barefoot on a floor that is unexpectedly cold, and I realize my shoulders are hunched from a full day of subconscious tension. 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
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 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.
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 see the procrastination, and then I see the ego's attempt to give this mundane event a profound meaning. 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 felt more like a nagging truth: the fact that there is no special zone where mindfulness is "optional." 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 breathing is thin, and I constantly lose track of it. I find it again, only to let it slip away once more. 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, 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 noise stops. I feel a tightness in my chest when the memory loops. I don’t fix it. I don’t smooth it over. 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.
To me, Patrick Kearney’s message is not about extreme effort, but about the refusal to limit mindfulness to "ideal" settings. In all honesty, that is difficult, because controlled environments are far easier to manage. Real life is indifferent. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. This kind of discipline is silent and unremarkable, yet it is far more demanding than formal practice.
At last, I wash the cup. The warm water creates a faint steam that clouds my vision. I use my shirt to clear my glasses, aware of the lingering coffee aroma. These mundane facts feel significant in this quiet hour. 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. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. 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 here now, when none of this feels "spiritual," y