I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. It’s 2:11 a.m. The light in the corner is too bright but I’m too lazy to turn it off. 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. 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. 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.
Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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
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. 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. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.
I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. He would have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over Control
My breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. 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.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. It simply persists. That is the relentless nature of the Mahāsi tradition as taught by Sayadaw U Kundala. No narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. 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.
The ache in my lower spine has returned in the same predictable location; I shift forward to alleviate it. I notice how quickly the mind wants to label that as success. I don’t follow it. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
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 seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.
The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. There is no resolution, and none is required. I sit here a little longer, not trying to website extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.