Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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. 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. 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 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.
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. It is a strange contradiction to be contemplating Sayadaw U Kundala’s stillness while my own mind is so chaotic. Yet, his influence makes me want to stop "improving" my state and focus instead on not making it more complicated.
The Layers of the Second Arrow
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Then the third reaction is judging how I noticed it. It’s exhausting how layered this gets. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
Earlier today I caught myself explaining meditation to someone, talking way too much, piling words on top of words. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. 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
My breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. 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. Maybe I get caught for a moment; it's hard to distinguish. But I remember that mindfulness is about truth, not about being a "master." It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. read more Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. 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. There is no resolution, and none is required. I remain on the cushion for a while longer, refusing to analyze the experience and simply allowing it to be exactly as it is—raw and incomplete, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.