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’s 2:11 a.m. The light in the corner is too bright but I’m too lazy to turn it off. 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. That style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. 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.
Currently, my consciousness is a storm of activity. One thought leads to another. Trivialities: an unreturned message, the dull ache in my shoulder, a doubt about my physical alignment. 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 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. 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. In the middle of the conversation, I knew most of my words were superfluous, yet I continued out of habit. 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 allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.
Precision over 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. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." I feel the mosquito land; I hold still for an extra second, then I swat it away. 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 just keeps happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. No narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
My back is hurting again in that same spot; check here I move a fraction, and the sensation changes. 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. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. Comfort seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.
The room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. I sit here a little longer, not trying to extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.