Silence, Precision, and the Unavoidable Pull Toward Direct Experience in Sayadaw U Kundala’s Teaching

Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. That kind of teaching messes with me. I’m used to being talked into things, reassured, explained. 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.

Right now my mind is anything but silent. Thoughts keep stacking. Trivialities: an unreturned message, the dull ache in my shoulder, a doubt about my physical alignment. It is a strange contradiction to be contemplating Sayadaw U Kundala’s stillness while my own mind is so chaotic. 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. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.

I realized today that I was over-explaining meditation to a friend, using far more words than were necessary. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. Sitting here now, that memory feels relevant. Sayadaw U Kundala wouldn’t have filled the space like that. He would have allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.

Precision over Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to read more smooth it out. The breath is hitched; the chest moves in an uneven rhythm of tension and release. 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. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.

Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It simply persists. That is the relentless nature of the Mahāsi tradition as taught by Sayadaw U Kundala. No narrative. No interpretation. If something hurts, it hurts. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. 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 observe 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. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.

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. I am not looking for comfort; I am looking for the steadiness that comes from his uncompromising silence. Comfort wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.

The room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. Nothing resolves. Nothing needs to. 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 closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.