Sayadaw U Kundala comes to mind precisely when I am overwhelmed by noise and the wordless presence of the Dhamma feels like the only honest teacher. 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 in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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. No warming up. No easing you in. Silence, then instruction, then silence again. 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. It operates on the assumption that you are capable of facing reality without a narrative to soften the impact.
Currently, my consciousness is a storm of activity. One thought leads to another. 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. 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
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. 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.
I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. 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 sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't click here 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. 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. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It just keeps happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. 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 see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. 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. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
I feel his influence tonight as a call to hold back—to use fewer words and less effort. Less speech, fewer final answers, and no narrative. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. 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. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. 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 like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.