I’ve been trying to figure out where I first heard the name Jatila Sayadaw, but my recollection remains unhelpful. It didn't happen through a single notable instance or an official presentation. It resembles the experience of noticing a tree on your property has matured significantly, yet the day-to-day stages of its growth have escaped your memory? It is merely present. I found his name already ingrained in my thoughts, familiar enough to be accepted without doubt.
I am sitting at my desk in the early hours— not exactly at the break of dawn, but during that hazy, transitional period when the morning light remains undecided. The rhythmic sound of a broom outside indicates the start of a day. It creates a sense of lethargy as I sit in a semi-conscious state, reflecting on a monastic with whom I had no direct contact. Only scattered pieces. Mental perceptions.
In discussions of his life, the word "revered" is used quite often. It is a descriptor that carries considerable gravity. But when they say it about Jatila Sayadaw, it doesn’t sound loud or formal. It sounds more like... carefulness. Like people are a bit more measured in their speech when he is the topic. There’s this sense of restraint there. I continue to ponder that specific trait—restraint. It seems quite unusual in this day and age. Everything else is about reaction, speed, being seen. He seems to belong to a completely different rhythm. One where time isn't something you try to hack or optimize. You merely exist within its flow. It sounds wonderful in text, but I suspect it is quite difficult to achieve.
I have a clear image of him in my thoughts, though I may have created it from old anecdotes or half-remembered sights. I see him walking; merely treading a path in the monastery, eyes cast down, his steps rhythmic. There is no hint of a performance in his gait. He is not seeking an audience, even if he is being watched. I may be idealizing this memory, but it is the image of him that persists.
It is strange that there are no common stories about his personality. There are no witty sayings or anecdotes that act as keepsakes. The conversation invariably centers on his self-control and his consistency. As if his individual self... withdrew to provide a space for the tradition to manifest. I occasionally muse on that idea. If the disappearance of the "self" is perceived as an expansive freedom or a narrowing of experience. I do not have the answer; I am not even certain if that is the correct inquiry.
The morning light is eventually shifting, becoming more intense. I’ve been looking over what I’ve written and I almost deleted it. It feels a bit messy, maybe even a little pointless. However, perhaps that is precisely the essence of it. Pondering his life reveals the noise I typically contribute to the world. The extent to which I feel compelled to occupy every silence with something "productive." He is the embodiment of get more info the opposite drive. He wasn't silent for the sake of being quiet; he just didn't seem to need anything extra.
I shall conclude my thoughts here. This is not a biography. I am simply noting how particular names endure, even when one is not consciously grasping them. They merely endure. Stable.