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 is deep into the night, 2:11 a.m., and I am caught in that state of being bothered by the bright light but too fatigued to move. 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 am in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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. The silence assumes that you can handle the raw experience without needing an explanation to make it palatable.
At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. 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. 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
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. 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.
Earlier here 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’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. 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. The insect settles on my skin; I hesitate for a moment before striking. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.
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. 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 lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. I notice how quickly the mind wants to label that as success. I don’t follow it. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Minimal words, no grand conclusions, and a total absence of 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 silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. 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 somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.