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 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 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. That style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. Silence provides no hiding place; it just waits for your own honesty. The silence assumes that you can handle the raw experience without needing an explanation to make it palatable.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. The irony isn’t lost on me. Precision and silence are exactly what I don’t have tonight. 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 first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. Then I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. Direct experience sounds simple read more 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. 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 allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.
Precision over Control
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. 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. The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. It just keeps happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. No narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. If the mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, then nothing special happens. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. I notice how quickly the mind wants to label that as success. I don’t follow it. 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." 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. 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 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 strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.