Something small triggers it. This time it was the sound of pages sticking together while I was browsing through an old book left beside the window for too long. Moisture has a way of doing that. I lingered for more time than was needed, methodically dividing each page, and his name simply manifested again, quiet and unbidden.
There’s something strange about respected figures like him. You don’t actually see them very much. One might see them, yet only from a detached viewpoint, viewed through a lens of stories, memories, and vague citations which are difficult to attribute exactly. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. Devoid of theatricality, devoid of pressure, and devoid of excuse. These very voids speak more eloquently than any speech.
I remember seeking another's perspective on him once Without directness or any sense of formality. Just a lighthearted question, much like an observation of the sky. They nodded, offered a small smile, and uttered something along the lines of “Ah, Sayadaw… he possesses great steadiness.” There was no further explanation given. Initially, I experienced a touch of letdown. Today, I consider that answer to have been entirely appropriate.
It’s mid-afternoon where I am. The day is filled with a muted, unexceptional light. I find myself sitting on the floor today, for no identifiable cause. Perhaps my body sought a new form of discomfort today. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. Wisdom allows for admiration from a remote vantage point. But steadiness must be practiced consistently in every moment.
Throughout his years, Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw endured vast shifts Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding that has come to represent modern Burmese history. And yet, when people speak of him, they don’t talk about opinions or positions. They emphasize his remarkable check here consistency. As if he were a permanent landmark that stayed still while the environment fluctuated. I’m not sure how someone manages that without becoming rigid. Achieving that equilibrium seems nearly unachievable.
A small scene continues to replay in my thoughts, though I can’t even be sure it really happened the way I remember it. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as though he possessed all the time in the world. That might not even have been Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. The mind often fuses different individuals in memory. But the sense of the moment remained strong. That impression of not being hurried by external pressures.
I find myself wondering, often, what it costs to be that kind of person. Not in a dramatic sense. Just the daily cost. The subtle sacrifices that appear unremarkable to others. Missing conversations you could have had. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Accepting the projections of others without complaint. 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 is a layer of dust on my hands from the paper. I wipe it away without thinking. Writing these words feels a bit unnecessary, and I mean that kindly. Not everything needs to have a clear use. Sometimes it’s enough to acknowledge that some lives leave a deep impression. never having sought to explain their own nature. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw is such a figure in my eyes. A presence to be felt rather than comprehended, perhaps by design.