Sayadaw U Kundala’s Teaching Style, Silent, Exacting, and Anchored in 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. It is deep into the night, 2:11 a.m., and I am caught in that state of being bothered by the bright light but too fatigued to move. 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 am half-sitting, half-collapsing, maintaining just enough structure to convince myself I'm practicing. 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
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. 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. It assumes you’ll deal with whatever comes up without commentary cushioning the fall.

At this moment, my internal world is cluttered with a constant stream of dialogue. 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. 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
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. 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.

I realized today that I was over-explaining meditation to a friend, using far more words than were necessary. Halfway through I realized I didn’t need most of them. I kept going anyway. Old habits. 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
I see that my breath is shallow and uneven, yet I refrain from trying to "fix" it. The inhalation is jagged, the exhalation is protracted; the chest constricts and then softens. 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. I feel a brief flash of anger, followed by relief, and then a strange sense of regret. It all occurs in an instant.

Experience unfolds regardless of my ability to grasp it. It just keeps get more info happening. That’s what feels so uncompromising about this style of teaching. There is no story or interpretation; pain is simply pain. If the consciousness drifts, that is what is happening. If the moment is mundane, it is simply mundane. The silence around it doesn’t judge or encourage. It just holds.

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. 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.

Sayadaw U Kundala feels present in this moment not as guidance but as restraint. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. 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 room is still, but my mind is not. My physical state fluctuates between pain and ease. 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 like the real Dhamma, far more than any words I could say about it.