Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. It’s 2:11 a.m. The light in the corner is too bright but I’m too lazy to turn it off. My lower legs ache as if from a long journey, and the quiet of the night brings out a thin, constant ringing in my ears. I am half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. For some reason, the essence of Sayadaw U Kundala keeps surfacing—not as a visual memory, but as a subtle push toward simplicity.
The Uncushioned Fall of Direct Instruction
I remember how little he spoke. Or maybe it just felt like little because nothing was wasted. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. That kind of teaching messes with me. I’m used to being talked into things, reassured, explained. Quietude offers no such comfort; it simply remains. It assumes you’ll deal with whatever comes up without commentary cushioning the fall.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Random stuff. Did I reply to that message earlier. Why does my shoulder ache like that. Is this posture wrong. It is a strange contradiction to be contemplating Sayadaw U Kundala’s stillness while my own mind is so chaotic. Still, thinking of Sayadaw U Kundala makes me less interested in fixing it and more interested in not adding extra noise.
The Layers of the Second Arrow
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Then I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.
I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. In the middle of the conversation, I knew most click here of my words were superfluous, yet I continued out of habit. Reflecting on that now, I see the contrast; Sayadaw U Kundala would have let the truth stand on its own without all that padding. He would have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over Control
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. The breath is hitched; the chest moves in an uneven rhythm of tension and release. There is a faint desire to make the breath "better." I am caught between the need for accuracy and the need for stillness. The insect settles on my skin; I hesitate for a moment before striking. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of it happens fast.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. It just keeps happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
My back is hurting again in that same spot; I move a fraction, and the sensation changes. I observe how the ego immediately tries to claim this relief as a "victory." I choose not to engage. Perhaps I follow it for a second before letting go; it's difficult to be certain. Real precision is about being exact, not about being in command. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. I am not looking for comfort; I am looking for the steadiness that comes from his uncompromising silence. Comfort is a finished product; steadiness is the courage to stay in the process.
The room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. I sit here a little longer, not trying to extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.