The Teaching Style of Sayadaw U Kundala, Where Precision and Silence Point Only to 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 calves feel tight, like I walked more than I remember. There’s a faint ringing in my ears that only shows up when everything else quiets down. I am half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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
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 doesn’t do that. Silence just waits. 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
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. Then I start evaluating the "mindfulness" of that observation. It is exhausting how quickly the mind builds these layers. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.

Earlier today I caught myself explaining meditation to someone, talking way too much, piling words on top of words. In the middle of the conversation, I knew most of my words were superfluous, yet I continued out of habit. In this stillness, that memory stands out. Sayadaw U Kundala would have never used words so carelessly. 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. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. There is a faint desire to make the breath "better." I am caught between the need for accuracy and the need for stillness. 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.

Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. It just continues. This is the "no-excuses" core of the practice. Everything is stripped of its label; discomfort is just sensation. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. 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. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. read more Precision isn’t about control. It’s about accuracy. 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. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. The teaching style doesn’t comfort me tonight. It steadies me. There’s a difference. Comfort is a finished product; steadiness is the courage to stay in the process.

The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. There is no resolution, and none is required. 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.