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. 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 half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. No warming up. No easing you in. Silence, then instruction, then silence again. 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. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Then I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. 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. In the middle of the conversation, I knew most of my words were superfluous, yet I continued out of habit. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. 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. The breath is hitched; the chest moves in an uneven rhythm of tension and release. There is a faint desire to make the breath "better." I am caught between the need for accuracy and the need for stillness. I feel the mosquito land; I hold still for an extra second, then I swat it away. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.
Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. 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 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 see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. Maybe I read more get caught for a moment; it's hard to distinguish. But I remember that mindfulness is about truth, not about being a "master." Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less 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 is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. There is no resolution, and none is required. I sit here a little longer, not trying to extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.