Sayadaw U Kundala’s Teaching Style, Silent, Exacting, and Anchored in 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. 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 am half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. He didn't believe in "small talk" or preparing the student; he gave the instruction and then let the silence do the work. That style of guidance is challenging for me; I am accustomed to being persuaded, comforted, and given detailed explanations. Quietude offers no such comfort; it simply remains. 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. Meaningless fragments: wondering about an email, analyzing a physical pain, questioning the "rightness" of my sit. 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 first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. 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. In the middle of the conversation, I knew most of my words were superfluous, yet I continued out of habit. Sitting here now, that memory feels relevant. Sayadaw U Kundala wouldn’t have filled the space like that. He would 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 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 insect settles on my skin; I hesitate for a moment before striking. 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 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 mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, then nothing special happens. The silence around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.

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. 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." It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.

I feel his influence more info tonight as a call to hold back—to use fewer words and less effort. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. 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 is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. 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.