Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. It’s 2:11 a.m. The light in the corner is too bright but I’m too lazy to turn it off. 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 am in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. I find that level of directness unsettling, as I usually expect to be "cushioned" by words and reassurances. Quietude offers no such comfort; it simply remains. 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. Trivialities: an unreturned message, the dull ache in my shoulder, a doubt about my physical alignment. The irony isn’t lost on me. Precision and silence are exactly what I don’t have tonight. 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. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Then I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. 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’ve let the awkward pause hang until something real showed up or nothing did.
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. There is a faint desire to make the breath "better." I am caught between the need for accuracy and the need for stillness. 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 just keeps happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. No saddhammaramsi sayadaw narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. If the mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, then nothing special happens. 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 see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. 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.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less 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 room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. I sit here a little longer, not trying to extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.