A tiny spark is usually enough to ignite the memory. In this instance, it was the noise of pages adhering to one another when I reached for a weathered book left beside the window for too long. Such is the nature of humid conditions. I found myself hesitating for a long moment, carefully detaching the sheets individually, and his name drifted back to me, softly and without warning.
Respected individuals of his stature often possess a strange aura. You don’t actually see them very much. If seen at all, it is typically from a remote perspective, transmitted through anecdotes, reminiscences, and partial quotations that no one can quite place. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. Devoid of theatricality, devoid of pressure, and devoid of excuse. And those absences say more than most words ever could.
I remember once asking someone about him. Without directness or any sense of formality. Just a casual question, as if I were asking about the weather. The person gave a nod and a faint smile, then remarked “Ah, Sayadaw… very steady.” That was it. No elaboration. At first, I felt a little unsatisfied with the answer. Now, I recognize the perfection in that brief response.
It’s mid-afternoon where I am. The room is filled with a neutral, unornamented light. I am positioned on the floor rather than in a chair, quite arbitrarily. Maybe I am testing a new type of physical strain today. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. We talk about wisdom a lot, but steadiness feels harder. Wisdom is something we can respect from the outside. Steadiness has to be lived next to, day after day.
The life of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw spanned an era of great upheaval. Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding that characterizes the modern history of Burma. And yet, when people speak of him, they don’t talk about opinions or positions. Instead, they highlight his unwavering nature. As if he were a permanent landmark that stayed still while the environment fluctuated. How one avoids rigidity while remaining so constant is a mystery to me. That balance feels almost impossible.
There is a particular moment that keeps recurring in my mind, although I cannot be sure my memory of it is perfectly true. A bhikkhu slowly and methodically adjusting his traditional robes, as if there was no other place he needed to be. Perhaps that monk was not Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw at all. Recollections have a way of blending people's identities. However, the emotion associated with it persisted. The feeling of being unburdened by the demands of society.
I frequently ponder the price of living such a life. Not in a dramatic fashion, but in the simple cost of daily existence. Silent sacrifices that do not seem like losses to the casual eye. Remaining silent when one could have spoken. Letting misunderstandings stand. Allowing others to project whatever they need onto you. I cannot say if he ever pondered these check here things. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe that’s the point.
My hands are now covered in dust from the old book. I clean my hands in an unthinking manner. Writing this feels slightly unnecessary, and I mean that in a good way. Utility is not the only measure of value. On occasion, it is sufficient simply to recognize. that certain lives leave an imprint without the need for self-justification. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw feels very much like that to me. An influence that is experienced rather than analyzed, as it should be.