Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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 half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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
I recall the economy of his speech; perhaps it wasn't the quantity of words, but the fact that every syllable was essential. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. 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. Trivialities: an unreturned message, the dull ache in my shoulder, a doubt about my physical alignment. It is a strange contradiction to be contemplating Sayadaw U Kundala’s stillness while my own mind is so chaotic. Nevertheless, his memory discourages me from trying to "repair" the moment and encourages me to simply stop adding to the 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 first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. 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.
Earlier today I caught myself explaining meditation to someone, talking way too much, piling words on top of words. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. Sitting here now, that memory feels relevant. Sayadaw U Kundala wouldn’t have filled the space like that. He would have allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.
Precision over Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. There is a faint desire to make the breath "better." I am caught between the need for accuracy and the need for stillness. 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 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 around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.
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. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment get more info not as guidance but as restraint. Minimal words, no grand conclusions, and a total absence of 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 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 like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.