I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. It is deep into the night, 2:11 a.m., and I am caught in that state of being bothered by the bright light but too fatigued to move. My calves feel tight, like I walked more than I remember. There’s a faint ringing in my ears that only shows up when everything else quiets down. I’m sitting, sort of. Slouched but upright enough to pretend. And for some reason Sayadaw U Kundala keeps floating into my mind, not as a face or a voice, more like a pressure toward less.
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 style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. Silence provides no hiding place; it just waits for your own honesty. It operates on the assumption that you are capable of facing reality without a narrative to soften the impact.
Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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
A mosquito is nearby; its high-pitched whine is audible but its location is hidden. It is incredibly irritating. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. Then I start read more 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. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. 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 allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.
Precision over Control
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. 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.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It simply persists. That is the relentless nature of the Mahāsi tradition as taught by Sayadaw U Kundala. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The silence provides no feedback; it only acts as a container for the truth.
My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. I notice how quickly the mind wants to label that as success. I don’t follow it. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
In this silence, Sayadaw U Kundala is a force of restraint rather than a provider of directions. Minimal words, no grand conclusions, and a total absence of story. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort is a finished product; steadiness is the courage to stay in the process.
The room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. There is no resolution, and none is required. I stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.