I didn’t really mean to get back into thinking about Jatila Sayadaw. It just... happened. I was messing around in the corner of my room this afternoon—you know that kind of cleaning where you just shuffle piles from one side to the other without actually finishing anything? I found this scrap of paper. It had a few Burmese words on it, written in ink that’s almost gone now. I can’t even really read it anymore, honestly. But his name just sort of popped up in my head, uninvited. Like it had been waiting for me to stop making so much noise.
The ceiling fan is going right now. It’s got this steady hum—not loud, just constant enough that you forget it’s there until you don't. That steadiness feels right, for some reason. When people talk about him, they rarely talk about "moments." They talk about duration. Decades. Just these long, quiet stretches of time where nothing "big" or dramatic happened, but something important was clearly being held together.
I think about how I used to be. When I was younger, I was always drawn to intensity. I wanted the teachers with the big personalities and the sharp, clever things to say. Jatila Sayadaw... he wasn’t that. Or at least, people don't remember him that way. He’s quieter. Inconveniently quiet, maybe. You can’t really turn him into a quote or a story with a punchline. He’s just... there.
Someone once told me he was "unchanging." That word actually made me feel a bit uneasy at first. It sounds kind of dead, doesn't it? Rigid. But the more I sit here tonight, the more I think they meant something else. Not frozen, but rooted. Like a tree that moves when the wind hits it but isn't going to uproot itself just because the weather changed. I don’t know if that distinction matters to anyone else, but it feels important to me right now.
It’s getting dark so early lately. I didn’t even notice the room dimming until it was almost pitch black and I realized I hadn't even bothered to turn a lamp on. I kind of like it, though. Thoughts get a bit more honest in the shadows. He seems like someone who didn’t need a spotlight to be present.
It’s also strange how people talk about him. They don't usually say "my teacher." They just say "the Sayadaw." As if he belonged to the tradition itself rather than to any one person. There’s something so grounded about more info that. I’m not sure I could ever live that way—being part of something so big without trying to claim a piece of it for myself or my own ego.
I find myself trying to imagine his regular days. Not the big ceremonies, just the waking up, the eating, the walking. Just being... available. It’s the kind of ordinariness that looks easy until you’ve failed at it as many times as I have. Just being still is surprisingly exhausting.
I just sneezed—must have stirred up some dust when I was "cleaning" earlier. It made me laugh a little at myself. This whole thing feels kind of unnecessary to write, like I'm saying things that don't really need to be said. But maybe that’s the point. He’s not a lesson you can wrap up with a neat little bow or a symbol you can explain away. He’s just a presence. One that keeps registering, quietly, long after the room has gone still.