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. A strange tightness has settled in my calves, and I can hear a subtle ringing in my ears—a sound that only reveals itself in total silence. 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
I recall the economy of his speech; perhaps it wasn't the quantity of words, but the fact that every syllable was essential. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. I find that level of directness unsettling, as I usually expect to be "cushioned" by words and reassurances. Quietude offers no such comfort; it simply remains. The silence assumes that you can handle the raw experience without needing an explanation to make it palatable.
Currently, my consciousness is a storm of activity. One thought leads to another. 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
A mosquito is nearby; its high-pitched whine is audible but its location is hidden. It is incredibly irritating. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. The concept of "direct experience" is easy in theory but incredibly difficult in practice.
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. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. 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 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. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. The silence provides no feedback; it only acts as a container for the truth.
My back is hurting again in that same spot; I move a fraction, and the sensation changes. I see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. Maybe I get caught for a moment; it's hard to distinguish. But I remember that here mindfulness is about truth, not about being a "master." 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. 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 seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.
The room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. 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.