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 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
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. I find that level of directness unsettling, as I usually expect to be "cushioned" by words and reassurances. 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.
Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. 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
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. 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. 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. 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 breath is hitched; the chest moves in an uneven rhythm of tension and release. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of it happens fast.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. 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 around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.
My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. 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. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort read more wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.
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.