I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. 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 half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. 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.
Currently, my consciousness is a storm of activity. One thought leads to another. 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. Yet, his influence makes me want to stop "improving" my state and focus instead on not making it more complicated.
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. Instantly, a second layer of awareness notes the presence of the anger. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.
I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. 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 breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. There is a faint desire to make the breath "better." I am caught between the need for accuracy and the need for stillness. 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.
Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
My back is hurting again in that same spot; I move a fraction, and the sensation changes. I observe here 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. 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 wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.
The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. There is no resolution, and none is required. 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.