Precision Without Excess Words: How Sayadaw U Kundala Teaches Through Silence and 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. 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 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 recall the economy of his speech; perhaps it wasn't the quantity of words, but the fact that every syllable was essential. 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. 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. I am acutely aware of the irony; I am thinking of precision and silence while possessing neither. 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
I can hear the thin, persistent sound of a mosquito, an invisible source of frustration in the dark. My first reaction is irritation, immediate and sharp. Then, with even greater speed, I recognize that I am irritated. Following that, I begin to judge the quality of my own observation. The complexity is draining. We talk about "bare awareness" as if it were simple, until we are actually faced with a mosquito at 2 a.m.

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. Sitting here now, that memory feels relevant. Sayadaw U Kundala wouldn’t have filled the space like that. He would have sat in the "awkward" silence, trusting that reality doesn't need to be managed.

Precision over Control
My breath feels uneven. I notice it without trying to smooth it out. 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." The mosquito lands on my arm. I resist the urge to swat for a second longer than usual. Then I swat. There’s a flicker of annoyance, then relief, then a weird guilt. All of get more info it happens fast.

Reality does not concern itself with my readiness or my comprehension. 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. If the mind wanders, it wanders. If nothing special happens, then nothing special happens. The silence provides no feedback; it only acts as a container for the truth.

My back is hurting again in that same spot; I move a fraction, and the sensation changes. 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. Seeing what’s actually there, not what I want to report.

I feel his influence tonight as a call to hold back—to use fewer words and less effort. Fewer words. Fewer conclusions. Less story. I am not looking for comfort; I am looking for the steadiness that comes from his uncompromising silence. Comfort seeks closure; steadiness allows the moment to remain unresolved.

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