Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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 am half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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 remember how little he spoke. Or maybe it just felt like little because nothing was wasted. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. 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. 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. 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. 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
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, 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. 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
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. 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." 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 just keeps happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
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.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. 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 is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. I get more info 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 somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.