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. 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
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. 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 turned into now. Now turned into standing here thinking about mindfulness instead of doing the obvious thing. 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 recall a talk by Patrick Kearney regarding practice in daily life, and at the time, it didn't feel like a profound revelation. 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. 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 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. I feel completely disconnected from the "ideal" version of myself that exists in a meditation hall, 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. 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. Frankly, this is a hard truth, as it is much easier to be mindful when the world is quiet. The here ordinary world offers no such support. Daily life persists, requiring your attention even when you are at your least mindful and most distracted. This kind of discipline is silent and unremarkable, yet it is far more demanding than formal practice.
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. 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