Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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 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
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. 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. It assumes you’ll deal with whatever comes up without commentary cushioning the fall.
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. 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
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. 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 realized today that I was over-explaining meditation to a friend, using far more words than were necessary. 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’ve let the awkward pause hang until something real showed up or nothing did.
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. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." 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 click here 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. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. 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.
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. 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.
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. 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 silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. 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.