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. 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 am in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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
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. It operates on the assumption that you are capable of facing reality without a narrative to soften the impact.
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. 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
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. 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. 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. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." The insect settles on my skin; I hesitate for a moment before striking. 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 just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. If the mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, website then nothing special happens. The silence around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.
My back is hurting again in that same spot; I move a fraction, and the sensation changes. I observe how the ego immediately tries to claim this relief as a "victory." I choose not to engage. 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." It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
I feel his influence tonight as a call to hold back—to use fewer words and less effort. Less speech, fewer final answers, and no narrative. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.
The room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. There is no resolution, and none is required. 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.