It is often a minor detail that sets it off. Tonight, it was the subtle sound of pages clinging together when I tried to flip through an old book that’s been sitting too close to the window. Such is the nature of humid conditions. I found myself hesitating for a long moment, ungluing each page with care, and his name simply manifested again, quiet and unbidden.
Respected individuals of his stature often possess a strange aura. They are not frequently seen in the public eye. One might see them, yet only from a detached viewpoint, filtered through stories, recollections, half-remembered quotes which lack a definitive source. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. The absence of spectacle. The absence of urgency. The absence of explanation. And those absences say more than most words ever could.
I remember seeking another's perspective on him once Not directly, not in a formal way. Only an offhand query, no different from asking about the rain. The individual inclined their head, gave a slight smile, and replied “Ah, Sayadaw… always so steady.” There was no further explanation given. In that instance, I felt a minor sense of disappointment. Now I think that response was perfect.
It is now mid-afternoon where I sit. The day is filled with a muted, unexceptional light. I find myself sitting on the floor today, for no identifiable cause. 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. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. It is easy to admire wisdom from a distance. Steadiness requires a presence that is maintained day in and day out.
Throughout his years, Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw endured vast shifts Transitions in power and culture, the slow wearing away and the sudden rise that characterizes the modern history of Burma. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They speak primarily of his consistency. He was like a fixed coordinate in a landscape of constant motion. I am uncertain how such stability can be achieved without becoming dogmatic. That level of balance seems nearly impossible to maintain.
There’s a small moment I keep replaying, although I cannot be sure my memory of it is check here perfectly true. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as though he possessed all the time in the world. It might have been another individual, not Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory blurs people together. However, the emotion associated with it persisted. The sense of total freedom from the world's expectations.
I often ask myself what the cost of that specific character might be. Not in a dramatic fashion, but in the simple cost of daily existence. Those silent concessions that are invisible to the external observer. Choosing not to engage in certain conversations. Letting misunderstandings stand. Allowing others to project whatever they need onto you. Whether he reflected on these matters is unknown to me. It could be that he didn't, and that may be the very heart of it.
There’s dust on my hands now from the book. I brush it off absentmindedly. Composing this reflection feels somewhat gratuitous, but in a good way. Utility is not the only measure of value. Sometimes it’s enough to acknowledge that specific lives leave a profound imprint. without feeling the need to explain their own existence. I perceive Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw in exactly that way. An influence that is experienced rather than analyzed, as it should be.