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’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’m sitting, sort of. Slouched but upright enough to pretend. 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
I remember how little he spoke. Or maybe it just felt like little because nothing was wasted. 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 assumes you’ll deal with whatever comes up without commentary cushioning the fall.
Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. 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. 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
A mosquito is nearby; its high-pitched whine is audible but its location is hidden. It is incredibly irritating. I feel an immediate sting of irritation. 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. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.
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. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. 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. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." 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.
Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. 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 consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.
The ache in my lower spine has returned in the same predictable location; I shift forward to alleviate it. 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. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.
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 seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.
The room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. There is no resolution, and none is required. I stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and somehow, click here that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.