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 am in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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. 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. Silence provides no hiding place; it just waits for your own honesty. 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. It is a strange contradiction to be contemplating Sayadaw U Kundala’s stillness while my own mind is so chaotic. 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
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Then the third reaction is judging how I noticed it. It’s exhausting how layered this gets. The concept of "direct experience" is easy in theory but incredibly difficult in practice.
Earlier today I caught myself explaining meditation to someone, talking way too much, piling words on top of words. 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 allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.
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, read more releases. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. The insect settles on my skin; I hesitate for a moment before striking. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It simply persists. That is the relentless nature of the Mahāsi tradition as taught by Sayadaw U Kundala. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The silence provides no feedback; it only acts as a container for the truth.
My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. I notice how quickly the mind wants to label that as success. I don’t follow it. Perhaps I follow it for a second before letting go; it's difficult to be certain. Real precision is about being exact, not about being in command. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
In this silence, Sayadaw U Kundala is a force of restraint rather than a provider of directions. 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 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 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 strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.