I have attempted to trace the origin of how the name Jatila Sayadaw first entered my awareness, but my memory is proving elusive. There was no distinct starting point 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’s just there. His name was already a part of my consciousness, so familiar that I took it for granted.
I am positioned here in the early morning— not exactly at the break of dawn, but during that hazy, transitional period before the sun has fully declared the day. I can detect the faint, rhythmic sound of a broom outside. This rhythmic sound emphasizes my stillness as I remain half-asleep, contemplating a monk I never met in person. Just fragments. Impressions.
Many individuals use the adjective "revered" to characterize him. That is a word with significant weight, is it not? In the context of Jatila Sayadaw, this word is neither loud nor overly formal. It suggests a quality of... profound care. It is as though people choose their vocabulary more carefully when discussing him. There is an underlying quality of restraint present. I return to this idea—the concept of restraint. It feels so out of place these days, doesn't it? Most other things prioritize immediate response, rapid pace, and public visibility. He seems to have been part of an entirely different temporal flow. One where time isn't something you try to hack or optimize. One simply dwells within it. It sounds wonderful read more in text, but I suspect it is quite difficult to achieve.
I find myself returning to a certain image in my mind, even though I may have fabricated it from pieces of past stories and memories. He is walking slowly down a monastery path, with his eyes lowered and his steps even. It doesn’t look like a performance. He is not seeking an audience, even if he is being watched. I’m probably romanticizing it, but that’s the version of him that stays with me.
It is strange that there are no common stories about his personality. There are no witty sayings or anecdotes that act as keepsakes. Discussion always returns to his discipline and his seamless practice. It's as if his persona faded to allow the tradition to speak. I occasionally muse on that idea. If the disappearance of the "self" is perceived as an expansive freedom or a narrowing of experience. I don’t know. I’m not even sure I’m asking the right question.
The light is finally starting to change now. It’s getting brighter. I’ve been looking over what I’ve written and I almost deleted it. The writing appears a little chaotic, maybe even somewhat without consequence. Yet, that might be the very intended effect. Pondering his life reveals the noise I typically contribute to the world. How often I feel the need to fill the silence with something considered useful. He appears to represent the contrary impulse. He did not choose silence merely to be still; he simply required nothing additional.
I will finish these reflections at this point. This isn't really a biography or anything. It's just me noticing how some names linger, even when you aren't trying to hold onto them. They just linger. Unwavering.