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. A strange tightness has settled in my calves, and I can hear a subtle ringing in my ears—a sound that only reveals itself in total silence. 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 remember how little he spoke. Or maybe it just felt like little because nothing was wasted. 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. It assumes you’ll deal with whatever comes up without commentary cushioning the fall.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Random stuff. Did I reply to that message earlier. Why does my shoulder ache like that. Is this posture wrong. The irony isn’t lost on me. Precision and silence are exactly what I don’t have tonight. 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 first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. Then I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.
Earlier today I caught myself explaining meditation to someone, talking way too much, piling words on top of words. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. 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. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. 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. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The silence around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.
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 more info 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. 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 room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. I stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.