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

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 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 in a seated posture, though it's more of an honest slouch than a formal meditative position. And for some reason Sayadaw U Kundala keeps floating into my mind, not as a face or a voice, more like a pressure toward less.

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 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. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. Nevertheless, his memory discourages me from trying to "repair" the moment and encourages me to simply stop adding to the 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. Then the third reaction is judging how I noticed it. It’s exhausting how layered this gets. Direct experience sounds simple until you’re actually in it.

I caught myself in a long-winded explanation of the Dhamma earlier, burying the truth under a mountain of speech. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. 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 breathing is irregular, and I am observing it without attempting to regulate the flow. Inhale catches slightly. Exhale longer. The chest tightens, releases. 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. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.

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. 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 read more 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. 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 room stays quiet. My thoughts don’t. The body keeps shifting between discomfort and tolerable. 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 strangely, that feels more authentic than any intellectual explanation I could manufacture.