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’s 2:11 a.m. The light in the corner is too bright but I’m too lazy to turn it off. 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 in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. 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. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. 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. 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. 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. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. Following that, I begin to judge the click here quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. The concept of "direct experience" is easy in theory but incredibly difficult in practice.

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. 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
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. 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. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.

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. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. Wandering is wandering. Mundanity is mundanity. There is no "special" state to achieve. The quietude neither criticizes nor praises; it simply provides the space for reality to exist.

My lower back complains again. Same spot. Predictable. I lean forward slightly. The complaint softens. I see the mind trying to turn "less pain" into a "good sit." I note the thought and let it go. 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. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.

The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. I sit here a little longer, not trying to extract meaning, just letting experience hit directly, unfiltered, unfinished, and strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.