Something small triggers it. Tonight, it was the subtle sound of pages clinging together as I attempted to leaf through an ancient volume resting in proximity to the window. Moisture has a way of doing that. I paused longer than necessary, ungluing each page with care, and in that stillness, his name reappeared unprompted.
There is a peculiar quality to revered personalities such as his. One rarely encounters them in a direct sense. Perhaps their presence is only felt from a great distance, perceived via the medium of lore, recollections, and broken quotes whose origins have become blurred over time. In the case of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, I perceive him through his voids. The void of drama, the void of rush, and the void of commentary. In many ways, these absences are more descriptive than any language
I remember once asking someone about him. Not directly, not in a formal way. Simply a passing remark, like a comment on the climate. The individual inclined their head, gave a slight smile, and replied “Ah, Sayadaw… always so steady.” That was the extent of it, with no further detail. Initially, I experienced a touch of letdown. Today, I consider that answer to have been entirely appropriate.
It is now mid-afternoon where I sit. The room is filled with a neutral, unornamented light. I’m sitting on the floor instead of the chair for no real reason. It could be that my back was looking for a different sensation this afternoon. I keep pondering the idea of being steady and the rarity of that quality. We talk about wisdom a lot, but steadiness feels harder. Wisdom is something we can respect from the outside. But steadiness must be practiced consistently in every moment.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw lived through so much change. Political upheavals, societal transitions, and cycles of erosion and renewal that characterizes the modern history of Burma. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They emphasize his remarkable consistency. As if he was a reference point that didn’t move while everything else did. How one avoids rigidity while remaining so constant is a mystery to more info me. That particular harmony feels incredibly rare
I frequently return to a specific, minor memory, even if I am uncertain if my recollection is entirely accurate. A monk taking great care to fix his robe in a slow manner, as if he were entirely free from any sense of urgency. That might not even have been Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Recollections have a way of blending people's identities. Nonetheless, the impression remained. That feeling of being unhurried by the expectations of the world.
I frequently ponder the price of living such a life. Not in a dramatic sense. Just the daily cost. Those silent concessions that are invisible to the external observer. Remaining silent when one could have spoken. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Allowing people to see in you whatever they require I am unsure if he ever contemplated these issues. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe that’s the point.
There’s dust on my hands now from the book. I brush it off absentmindedly. Writing this feels slightly unnecessary, and I mean that in a good way. There is no requirement for every thought to be practical. Occasionally, it is adequate to merely acknowledge. that certain existences leave a lasting trace. without ever trying to explain themselves. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw feels very much like that to me. A presence to be felt rather than comprehended, perhaps by design.