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. A strange tightness has settled in my calves, and I can hear a subtle ringing in my ears—a sound that only reveals itself in total silence. 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. No warming up. No easing you in. Silence, then instruction, then silence again. 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. 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. The irony isn’t lost on me. Precision and silence are exactly what I don’t have tonight. 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 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 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. Reflecting on that now, I see the contrast; Sayadaw U Kundala would have let the truth stand on its own without all that padding. 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. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. There’s a subtle urge to adjust, to refine, to make it cleaner. Precision whispers. Silence counters. Just this. Just now. The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. 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 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 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. 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. It is about perceiving the raw reality, not the version I want to tell myself.

In this silence, Sayadaw U Kundala is a force of restraint rather than a provider of directions. Minimal words, no grand conclusions, and a total absence of story. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a read more 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 resolves. Nothing needs to. I stay here, not looking for a lesson, just letting the moments land as they are—unprocessed and open, and somehow that feels closer to the point than anything I could explain to myself right now.