The smallest trigger can bring it back. 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. It's a common result of humidity. I found myself hesitating for a long moment, ungluing each page with care, and his name drifted back to me, softly and without warning.
One finds a unique attribute in esteemed figures like the Sayadaw. They are not often visible in the conventional way. Perhaps their presence is only felt from a great distance, viewed through a lens of stories, memories, and vague citations which lack a definitive source. When I think of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, he is defined by his absences. The absence of spectacle. The absence of urgency. The absence of explanation. Such silences communicate more than a multitude of words.
I recall an occasion when I inquired about him. It wasn't a direct or official inquiry. Simply a passing remark, like a comment on the climate. They nodded, offered a small smile, and uttered something along the lines of “Ah, the Sayadaw… he is very stable.” The conversation ended there, without any expansion. Initially, I experienced a touch of letdown. Now I think that response was perfect.
Here, it is the middle of the afternoon. The room is filled with a neutral, unornamented light. I’m sitting on the floor instead of the chair for no real reason. Perhaps my spine desired a different sort of challenge this morning. I find myself contemplating steadiness and its actual uniqueness. While wisdom is often discussed, steadiness appears to be the greater challenge. One can appreciate wisdom from a great distance. Steadiness must be lived in close proximity, throughout each day.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw lived through so much change. Shifts in the political and social landscape, alongside the constant flux of rebuilding that seems to define modern Burmese history. Despite this, when he is mentioned, it is not for his political or personal opinions They emphasize his remarkable consistency. As if he was a reference point that didn’t move while everything else did. I’m not sure how someone manages that without becoming rigid. Such a balance appears almost beyond human check here capability.
I find myself mentally revisiting a brief instant, even though I cannot verify if the memory matches the reality. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as if he were entirely free from any sense of urgency. Perhaps that monk was not Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw at all. Recollections have a way of blending people's identities. Nonetheless, the impression remained. That sense of not being rushed by the world’s expectations.
I frequently ponder the price of living such a life. Not in a grand sense, but in the mundane daily sacrifices. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. Forgoing interactions that might have taken place. Allowing misconceptions to go uncorrected. Allowing others to project whatever they need onto you. I do not know if such thoughts ever entered his mind. Perhaps he was free of such concerns, and maybe that's the key.
I notice dust on my fingers from the old volume. I brush the dust off in a distracted way The act of writing this feels almost superfluous, and I say that with respect. Not everything has to be useful. Occasionally, it is adequate to merely 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 aura that is sensed rather than understood, and perhaps intended to remain so.