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. 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 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 assumes you’ll deal with whatever comes up without commentary cushioning the fall.
Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. 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
A mosquito is nearby; its high-pitched whine is audible but its location is hidden. It is incredibly irritating. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. Then the third reaction is judging how I noticed it. It’s exhausting how layered this gets. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
I realized today that I was over-explaining meditation to a friend, using far more words than were necessary. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. saddhammaramsi sayadaw Old habits. 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 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. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. 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 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, then nothing special happens. The silence provides no feedback; it only acts as a container for the truth.
The ache in my lower spine has returned in the same predictable location; I shift forward to alleviate it. 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." 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. Minimal words, no grand conclusions, and a total absence of story. 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 silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. I sit here a little longer, not trying to extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.