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. There are no formal structures here—no meditation bell, no carefully arranged seat. It is just me, caught between presence and distraction.
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. This is the moment where practice becomes clumsy and uninspiring, and that is precisely where I find Patrick Kearney’s influence.
There’s a mug in the sink with dried coffee at the bottom. I told myself earlier I’d rinse it later. That delayed moment is here, and I am caught in the trap of thinking about mindfulness instead of actually practicing it. 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 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 breath is barely noticeable; I catch it, lose it, and get more info catch it again in a repetitive cycle. This is not a peaceful state; it is a struggle. My body is tired, and my mind is searching for a distraction. 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 tonight I snapped at someone over something small. I replay it now, not because I want to, but because my mind does that thing where it pokes sore spots when everything else gets quiet. I perceive a physical constriction in my chest as I recall the event, and I choose not to suppress or rationalize it. I just feel it sit there, awkward and unfinished. 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. Daily life persists, requiring your attention even when you are at your least mindful and most distracted. The rigor required in this space is subtle, unheroic, and often frustrating.
I finally rinse the mug. The water’s warm. Steam fogs my glasses a bit. 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. As I lean over, my back cracks audibly; I feel the discomfort and then find the humor in my own aging body. 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 lack a sense of total clarity or peace, yet I am undeniably present. Caught between the desire for an organized path and the realization that life is unpredictable. 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