I have been searching for the moment how the name Jatila Sayadaw first entered my awareness, but my memory is being stubborn. There was no distinct starting point or a formal debut. It is similar to the way one observes that a tree in the yard has become quite tall, without having any clear recollection of the actual growing process? It has just become a fixture. I found his name already ingrained in my thoughts, familiar enough to be accepted without doubt.
I’m sitting here now, early— not quite at the moment of sunrise, but in that grey, liminal space before the sun has fully declared the day. I can hear someone sweeping outside, a really steady, rhythmic sound. It highlights my own lack of motion as I sit here, partially awake, reflecting on a monastic with whom I had no direct contact. Just disconnected shards of information. Vague impressions.
In discussions of his life, the word "revered" is used quite often. It is a descriptor that carries considerable gravity. However, when used in reference to Jatila Sayadaw, it lacks any sense of boisterousness or formality. It suggests a quality of... profound care. It is as though people choose their vocabulary more carefully when discussing him. There is a feeling of great restraint in his legacy. I am often thinking about that sense of restraint. Such a characteristic seems quite foreign in the modern world, does it not? Most other things prioritize immediate response, rapid pace, and public visibility. Jatila Sayadaw appears to inhabit a fundamentally different cadence. A temporal sense where time is not for optimization or control. You simply exist in it. That concept is elegant in writing, though I suspect the reality is far more demanding.
I have this image of him in my head, even though I may have fabricated it from pieces of past stories and memories. In this image, he is walking—simply moving along a monastery trail with downcast eyes and balanced steps. It isn't a performative movement. He isn't performing for others, even if there were onlookers nearby. I am likely romanticizing the scene, but that is how he remains in my thoughts.
Curiously, there is a lack of anecdotal lore about his specific personality. There are no clever anecdotes or witty sayings that people pass around like souvenirs. The conversation invariably centers on his self-control and his consistency. It's as if his persona faded to allow the tradition to speak. I wonder about that sometimes. Whether it is experienced as liberation to let the "ego" fade, or if it feels restrictive. I'm not sure if I'm even asking the correct question.
The daylight has begun to transition at last, growing more luminous. I looked back at my writing and nearly decided to remove it all. It feels somewhat fragmented, or possibly check here without any clear purpose. Yet, that might be the very intended effect. Thinking about him highlights how much noise I typically add to the world. The frequency with which I attempt to fill the stillness with something "valuable." He is the embodiment of the opposite drive. He did not choose silence merely to be still; he simply required nothing additional.
I'll end it there. This is not a biography. It is just a realization of how certain names stay with you, even when you aren't trying to keep them. They simply remain. Consistent.