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. No warming up. No easing you in. Silence, then instruction, then silence again. I find that level of directness unsettling, as I usually expect to be "cushioned" by words and reassurances. 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.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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
A mosquito is nearby; its high-pitched whine is audible but its location is hidden. It is incredibly irritating. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. He would have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over here Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. 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. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of it happens fast.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. 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 quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. 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. But I remember that mindfulness is about truth, not about being a "master." Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
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. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. Comfort is a finished product; steadiness is the courage to stay in the process.
The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. 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 somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.