I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. 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’m sitting, sort of. Slouched but upright enough to pretend. And for some reason Sayadaw U Kundala keeps floating into my mind, not as a face or a voice, more like a pressure toward less.
The Uncushioned Fall of Direct Instruction
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. 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 provides no hiding place; it just waits for your own honesty. It operates on the assumption that you are capable of facing reality without a narrative to soften the impact.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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
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 I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
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. Sitting here now, that memory feels relevant. Sayadaw U Kundala wouldn’t have filled the space like that. He would have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. The inhalation website 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. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of it happens fast.
Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. No 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. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
I feel his influence tonight as a call to hold back—to use fewer words and less effort. 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 is a finished product; steadiness is the courage to stay in the process.
The room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. There is no resolution, and none is required. 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.