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 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’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
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. 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. 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. 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. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. 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. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. He would have allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.
Precision over Control
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. 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 click here this. Just now. The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. 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. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. If the mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, then nothing special happens. 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 see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. Maybe I get caught for a moment; it's hard to distinguish. But I remember that mindfulness is about truth, not about being a "master." 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. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort is a finished product; steadiness is the courage to stay in the process.
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.