Patrick Kearney’s presence returns to my mind precisely when the spiritual high of a retreat ends and I am left to navigate the messy reality of ordinary life. The time is 2:07 a.m., and the silence in the house is heavy. I can hear the constant hum of the refrigerator and the intrusive ticking of the clock. 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. 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
In the past, retreats felt like evidence of my progress. The routine of waking, sitting, and mindful eating seemed like the "real" practice. 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 the routine of daily life returns: the chores, the emails, and the habit of half-listening while preparing a response. 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 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 place the phone face down, only to pick it back up moments later. Discipline, it seems, is a jagged path.
My breathing is thin, and I constantly lose track of it. I find it again, only to let it slip away once more. This isn’t serene. It’s clumsy. The body wants to slump. The mind wants to be entertained. 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
I was irritable earlier today and reacted poorly to a small provocation. The memory returns now, driven by the mind's tendency to dwell on regrets once the external noise stops. 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. This moment of difficult awareness feels more significant than any "perfect" meditation I've done in a retreat.
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 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. My mind attempts to make this a "spiritual moment," but I refuse to engage. Or perhaps I acknowledge it and then simply let it go.
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’s influence settles back website into the background, a silent guide that I didn't 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