The smallest trigger can bring it back. The trigger today was the sound of paper sticking together when I reached for a weathered book placed too near the window pane. It's a common result of humidity. I stopped for a duration that felt excessive, ungluing each page with care, and somehow his name surfaced again, quietly, without asking.
There’s something strange about respected figures like him. They are not frequently seen in the public eye. Or maybe you see them, but only from a distance, conveyed via narratives, memories, and fragmented sayings whose origins have become blurred over time. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. Without grandiosity, without speed, and without the need for clarification. And those absences say more than most words ever could.
I remember once asking someone about him. In an indirect and informal manner. 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… remarkably consistent.” That was all—no further commentary was provided. At the time, I felt slightly disappointed. Now I think that response was perfect.
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. It could be that my back was looking for a different sensation this afternoon. I find myself contemplating steadiness and its actual uniqueness. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. Wisdom allows for admiration from a remote vantage point. Steadiness, however, must be embodied in one's daily existence.
Throughout his years, Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw endured vast shifts Shifts in the political and social landscape, alongside the constant flux of rebuilding which defines the historical arc of modern Burma. And yet, when people speak of him, they don’t talk about opinions or positions. They talk about consistency. As get more info if he were a permanent landmark that stayed still while the environment fluctuated. I am uncertain how such stability can be achieved without becoming dogmatic. Achieving that equilibrium seems nearly unachievable.
There’s a small moment I keep replaying, although I am not certain the event occurred exactly as I recall. 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. Memory tends to merge separate figures over time. But the underlying feeling stayed with me. That sense of not being rushed by 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. Silent sacrifices that do not seem like losses to the casual eye. Remaining silent when one could have spoken. Permitting errors in perception to remain. Permitting individuals to superimpose their own needs upon your image. I am unsure if he ever contemplated these issues. Maybe he was beyond such thoughts, which could be the entire point.
I notice dust on my fingers from the old volume. I clean my hands in an unthinking manner. Writing this feels slightly unnecessary, and I mean that in a good way. Not all reflections need to serve a specific purpose. Occasionally, it is adequate to merely acknowledge. that certain lives leave an imprint without feeling the need to explain their own existence. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw feels very much like that to me. An aura that is sensed rather than understood, and perhaps intended to remain so.