Sayadaw U Kundala’s Teaching Style, Silent, Exacting, and Anchored in Direct Experience

I find myself returning to the memory of Sayadaw U Kundala whenever language fails and only silence seems to hold any true guidance. 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’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 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 operates on the assumption that you are capable of facing reality without a narrative to soften the impact.

Currently, my consciousness is a storm of activity. One thought leads to another. Random stuff. Did I reply to that message earlier. Why does my shoulder ache like that. Is this posture wrong. It is a strange contradiction to be contemplating Sayadaw U Kundala’s stillness while my own mind is so chaotic. Yet, his influence makes me want to stop "improving" my state and focus instead on not making it more complicated.

The Layers of the Second Arrow
There’s a mosquito somewhere. I can hear it but can’t see it. The sound is thin and annoying. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. 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. 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. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. He would have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.

Precision over Control
My breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. The insect settles check here on my skin; I hesitate for a moment before striking. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.

Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. 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.

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. 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. Less speech, fewer final answers, and no narrative. I am not looking for comfort; I am looking for the steadiness that comes from his uncompromising silence. Comfort seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.

The room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. 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 somehow, that feels like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.