The Teaching Style of Sayadaw U Kundala, Where Precision and Silence Point Only to Direct Experience
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’m sitting, sort of. Slouched but upright enough to pretend. For some reason, the essence of Sayadaw U Kundala keeps surfacing—not as a visual memory, but as a subtle push toward simplicity.The Uncushioned Fall of Direct Instruction
I recall the economy of his speech; perhaps it wasn't the quantity of words, but the fact that every syllable was essential. No warming up. No easing you in. Silence, then instruction, then silence again. That style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. Silence provides no hiding place; it just waits for your own honesty. The silence assumes that you can handle the raw experience without needing an explanation to make it palatable.
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. 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
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. The concept of "direct experience" is easy in theory but incredibly difficult in practice.
Earlier today I caught myself explaining meditation to someone, talking way too much, piling words on top of words. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. 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 click here have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.
Precision over Control
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. The breath is hitched; the chest moves in an uneven rhythm of tension and release. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.
Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. It simply persists. That is the relentless nature of the Mahāsi tradition as taught by Sayadaw U Kundala. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. 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 observe how the ego immediately tries to claim this relief as a "victory." I choose not to engage. 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." Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.
In this silence, Sayadaw U Kundala is a force of restraint rather than a provider of directions. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.
The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. I stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.