I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. 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. 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’m sitting, sort of. Slouched but upright enough to pretend. 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 remember how little he spoke. Or maybe it just felt like little because nothing was wasted. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. That kind of teaching messes with me. I’m used to being talked into things, reassured, explained. 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.
Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. Random stuff. Did I reply to that message earlier. Why does my shoulder ache like that. Is this posture wrong. The irony isn’t lost on me. Precision and silence are exactly what I don’t have tonight. 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
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. Then the third reaction is judging how I noticed it. It’s exhausting how layered this gets. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.
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. 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 need to be managed.
Precision over Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. 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. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.
Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. It simply persists. That is the relentless nature of the Mahāsi tradition as taught by Sayadaw U Kundala. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. 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 see the read more 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.
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 room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. I stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.