How Sayadaw U Kundala Uses Precision and Silence to Leave Only Direct Experience

Sayadaw U Kundala stays with me when words feel excessive and silence feels like the real instruction. 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
His silence was legendary, or perhaps it just seemed that way because he never engaged in unnecessary talk. There were no introductions or gentle transitions—only quiet, followed by direct guidance, and then a return to quiet. I find that level of directness unsettling, as I usually expect to be "cushioned" by words and reassurances. 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. 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
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. My initial response is a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. Then the second reaction, even faster, is to notice the irritation. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.

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 allowed the silence to persist until either a genuine insight arose or the moment passed.

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 more info this. Just now. I feel the mosquito land; I hold still for an extra second, then I swat it away. Annoyance, relief, and guilt—all three emotions pass through me in the blink of an eye.

Direct experience doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It doesn’t ask if I understand. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. 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 notice how quickly the mind wants to label that as success. I don’t follow it. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. The goal is accuracy: witnessing what is present, rather than what I wish to be present.

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 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 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.