I’ve been trying to figure out when I first became aware of the name Jatila Sayadaw, but my recollection remains unhelpful. There was no distinct starting point or a formal announcement. It resembles the experience of noticing a tree on your property has matured significantly, yet the day-to-day stages of its growth have escaped your memory? It’s just there. By the time I noticed it, his name was already an unquestioned and familiar presence.
I am positioned here in the early morning— 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 makes me feel somewhat idle as I sit here in a state of semi-awareness, contemplating a monk I never met in person. Only scattered pieces. Mental perceptions.
He is often described with the word "revered" in various conversations. That is a term of great substance and meaning. In the context of Jatila Sayadaw, this word is neither loud nor overly formal. It sounds more like... carefulness. Like people are a bit more measured in their speech when he is the topic. A palpable sense of self-control accompanies his memory. I am often thinking about that sense of restraint. It seems quite unusual in this day and age. The modern world values reaction, haste, and the desire for attention. He seems to belong to a completely different rhythm. A cadence where time is not something to be controlled or improved. One simply dwells within it. While that idea is appealing on paper, I imagine it is much more difficult to realize in practice.
I have a clear image of him in my thoughts, though I might have just made it up from bits of old stories or other things I've seen. He is walking slowly down a monastery path, with his eyes lowered and his steps even. There is no hint of a performance click here in his gait. He’s not doing it for an audience, even if people happened to be watching. I may be romanticizing it, but that is the image that remains.
It’s funny, no one really tells "personality" stories about him. No one passes around clever anecdotes or humorous sayings as mementos of him. People only speak of his discipline and his continuity. It's as if his persona faded to allow the tradition to speak. I wonder about that sometimes. Whether it feels like a form of liberty or a restriction to let the self vanish. I don’t know. I’m not even sure I’m asking the right question.
The light is at last beginning to alter, increasing in brightness. I have been examining my notes and almost chose to discard them. It feels somewhat fragmented, or possibly without any clear purpose. Yet, that might be the very intended effect. Reflecting on Jatila Sayadaw highlights the sheer amount of unnecessary noise I produce. The frequency with which I attempt to fill the stillness with something "valuable." He seems to be the opposite of that. He did not choose silence merely to be still; he simply required nothing additional.
I will simply leave the matter there. This isn't really a biography or anything. It is merely an observation of how certain names persist, even without an effort to retain them. They simply remain. Consistent.