Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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 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. 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. 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. Random stuff. Did I reply to that message earlier. Why does my shoulder ache like that. Is this posture wrong. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. Then the third reaction is judging how I noticed it. It’s exhausting how layered this gets. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
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 have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over Control
My breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, 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. 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 click here is just sensation. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. The silence provides no feedback; it only acts as a container for the truth.
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. 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. The goal is accuracy: witnessing what is present, rather than what I wish to be present.
In this silence, Sayadaw U Kundala is a force of restraint rather than a provider of directions. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. 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 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 strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.