I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. The clock reads 2:11 a.m., and the corner light is glaring, yet I lacks the energy to stand up and extinguish it. 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 in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. That kind of teaching messes with me. I’m used to being talked into things, reassured, explained. Silence doesn’t do that. Silence just waits. The silence assumes that you can handle the raw experience without needing an explanation to make it palatable.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. 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
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. 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’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. 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. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is read more mundane, it is simply mundane. The silence around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.
The ache in my lower spine has returned in the same predictable location; I shift forward to alleviate it. I see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. 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. The goal is accuracy: witnessing what is present, rather than what I wish to be present.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Less speech, fewer final answers, and no narrative. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. Comfort wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.
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 strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.