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. It is past 2 a.m., and the stillness of the home feels expectant. Every small sound—the fridge’s vibration, the clock’s steady beat—seems amplified. 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. 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
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. 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.
A coffee-stained mug sits in the sink, a task I delayed earlier today. 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. I’m tired. Not dramatic tired. Just that dull heaviness behind the eyes. The kind that makes shortcuts sound reasonable.
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. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. No special zone where awareness magically behaves better. 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 isn’t serene. It’s clumsy. The body wants to slump. The mind wants to be entertained. The person I am during a retreat seems like a distant stranger to the person I am right now, this version of me in worn-out clothes, distracted by domestic thoughts and trivial worries.
The Unfinished Practice of the Everyday
Earlier this evening, I lost my temper over a minor issue. 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 just feel it sit there, awkward and unfinished. 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. Which sucks, honestly, because special conditions are easier. They hold you up. Daily life doesn’t care. 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.
I clean the mug, feeling the warmth of the water and watching the steam rise against my glasses. I wipe them on my shirt. The smell of coffee lingers. These tiny details feel weirdly loud at this 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 am not particularly calm or settled, but I am unmistakably here. Caught between read more the desire for an organized path and the realization that life is unpredictable. The thought of Patrick Kearney recedes, like a necessary but uninvited reminder of the work ahead, {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