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 in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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
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. That style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. 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.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Trivialities: an unreturned message, the dull ache in my shoulder, a doubt about my physical alignment. 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
A mosquito is nearby; its high-pitched whine is audible but its location is hidden. It is incredibly irritating. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. The concept of "direct experience" is easy in theory but incredibly difficult in practice.
I realized today that I was over-explaining meditation to a friend, using far more words than were necessary. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. 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
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. I feel the mosquito land; I hold still for an extra second, then I swat it away. 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. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. 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.
The ache in my lower spine has returned in the same predictable location; I shift forward to alleviate it. I observe how the ego immediately tries to claim this relief as a "victory." I choose not to engage. Or click here I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. 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 stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.