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 calves feel tight, like I walked more than I remember. There’s a faint ringing in my ears that only shows up when everything else quiets down. I’m sitting, sort of. Slouched but upright enough to pretend. 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. That style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. Silence doesn’t do that. Silence just waits. The silence assumes that you can handle the raw experience without needing an explanation to make it palatable.
Currently, my consciousness is a storm of activity. One thought leads to another. 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. 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
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. 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.
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. Reflecting on that now, I see the contrast; Sayadaw U Kundala would have let the truth stand on its own without all that padding. He would’ve let the awkward pause hang until something real showed up or nothing did.
Precision over Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. 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. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of it happens fast.
Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. No narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. 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 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. 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. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. 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 saddhammaramsi sayadaw 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.