Lately, I have been reflecting deeply on the concept of pillars. I am not referring to the ornate, decorative columns you might see on the front of a gallery, but rather the ones buried deep within a structure that are never acknowledged until you see they are the only things keeping the roof from coming down. That is the mental picture that stays with me when contemplating Mya Sein Taung Sayadaw. He was not an individual who sought the limelight. In the context of Burmese Theravāda Buddhism, his presence was just... constant. Stable and dependable. He appeared to care far more about the Dhamma itself than any status he might have gained.
A Life Rooted in Tradition
To be fair, he seemed like a figure from a much older time. He came from a lineage that followed patient, traditional cycles of learning and rigor —without the need for rapid progress or convenient "fixes" for the soul. His life was built on a foundation of the Pāḷi Canon and the Vinaya, which he followed faithfully. One wonders if this kind of unwavering loyalty to the original path is the most courageous choice —to stay so strictly committed to the ancient methods of practice. In our modern lives, we are obsessed with "modifying" or "reimagining" the teachings to ensure it fits easily into our modern routines, yet his life was a silent testament that the ancient system is still effective, provided one actually follows it with sincerity.
The Discipline of Staying in the Present
Those who studied with him mention the word "staying" more than any other instruction. I find that single word "staying" resonating deeply within me today. Staying. He taught that the goal of practice is not to gather special sensations or attaining a grand, visionary state of consciousness.
The practice is nothing more than learning how to stay.
• Remain with the breathing process.
• Stay with the consciousness even when it starts to wander.
• Abide with physical discomfort rather than trying to escape it.
Such a task is much harder to execute than one might imagine. I am usually inclined to find a way out as soon as things become uncomfortable, but his entire life suggested that the only way to understand something is to stop running from it.
A Legacy of Humility and Persistence
I consider his approach to difficult mental states like tedium, uncertainty, and agitation. He did not treat them as problems to be resolved. He just acknowledged them as objects to be noted. It is a subtle shift, but it changes the entire practice. It eliminates the sense of aggressive "striving." It changes from a project of mental control to click here a process of clear vision.
He didn't seek to build an international brand or attract thousands of followers, but his impact feels profound precisely because it was so understated. He dedicated himself to the development of other practitioners. Consequently, his students became teachers themselves, continuing his legacy of modesty. His effectiveness was not dependent on being recognized.
I've reached the conclusion that the Dhamma doesn't need to be repackaged or made "interesting." It just needs persistent application and honest looking. In a world that is perpetually shouting for our attention, his example points in the opposite direction—toward something simple and deep. He may not be a name that is known by everyone, but that is acceptable. Authentic power usually moves silently anyway. It transforms things without ever demanding praise. I am trying to sit with that tonight, just the quiet weight of his example.