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. 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. 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. 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. 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.

At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. Trivialities: an unreturned message, the dull ache in my shoulder, a doubt about my physical alignment. 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
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. 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. 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. I saw the redundancy of my own speech while I was talking, but I couldn't seem to stop. 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
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. The breath is hitched; the chest moves in an uneven rhythm of tension and release. I feel a quiet impulse to "improve" the breath, to make it more meditative. Precision says "see it," silence says "leave it." I feel the mosquito land; I hold still for an extra second, then I swat it away. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of it happens fast.

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 more info 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 observe how the ego immediately tries to claim this relief as a "victory." I choose not to engage. Or I do, briefly, then drop it. Hard to tell. 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. Less speech, fewer final answers, and no narrative. His method provides no comfort this evening, but it gives me a sense of stability. There is a vital distinction. Comfort wraps things up. Steadiness lets them stay open.

The silence of the room contrasts with my busy mind and my shifting somatic sensations. Nothing is "fixed," and that is perfectly fine. 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.