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. 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. 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
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 kind of teaching messes with me. I’m used to being talked into things, reassured, explained. Silence doesn’t do that. Silence just waits. 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. 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
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. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. 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 caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. In the middle of the conversation, I knew most of my words were superfluous, yet I continued out of habit. 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 have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over Control
My breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. 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. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.
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. No narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. 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 see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. Maybe I get caught for a moment; it's hard to distinguish. website But I remember that mindfulness is about truth, not about being a "master." The goal is accuracy: witnessing what is present, rather than what I wish to be present.
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. I am not looking for comfort; I am looking for the steadiness that comes from his uncompromising silence. Comfort wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.
The room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. 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.