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 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 am half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. Sayadaw U Kundala drifts into my thoughts, appearing not as an image but as a distinct internal pressure to strip everything away.
The Uncushioned Fall of Direct Instruction
I remember how little he spoke. Or maybe it just felt like little because nothing was wasted. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. 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. Random stuff. Did I reply to that message earlier. Why does my shoulder ache like that. Is this posture wrong. 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 first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. 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. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.
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. 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
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. 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.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. If the mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, then nothing special happens. The silence around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.
My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. I observe how the ego immediately tries to claim this relief as a "victory." I choose not to engage. 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.
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. 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 silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. 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 check here to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.