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. 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
Retreats used to feel like proof. Like I was doing the thing. You wake up, you sit, you walk, you eat quietly, repeat. 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. But then reality intervenes—the laundry, the digital noise, and the social pressure to react rather than listen. It is in this awkward, unglamorous space that the lessons of Patrick Kearney become most relevant to my mind.
There’s a mug in the sink with dried coffee at the bottom. I told myself earlier I’d rinse it later. Later turned into now. Now turned into standing here thinking about mindfulness instead of doing the obvious thing. 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 recall a talk by Patrick Kearney regarding practice in daily life, and at the time, it didn't feel like a profound revelation. 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. 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 place the phone face down, only to pick it back up moments later. Discipline, it seems, is a jagged path.
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, 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. 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. That feels closer to real practice than anything that happened on a cushion last month.
To me, Patrick Kearney’s message is not about extreme effort, but about the refusal to limit mindfulness to "ideal" settings. 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. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. The discipline here is quieter. Less impressive. More annoying.
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 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 lack a sense of total clarity or peace, yet I am undeniably present. 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 now, when none of Patrick Kearney this feels "spiritual," y