I have attempted to trace the origin of how the name Jatila Sayadaw first entered my awareness, but my memory is being stubborn. There was no distinct starting point or a formal announcement. It is akin to realizing a tree in your garden has become unexpectedly large, without ever having observed the incremental steps of its development? It has just become a fixture. His name was just there, familiar in a way I never really questioned.
I am sitting at my desk in the early hours— not quite at the moment of sunrise, but in that grey, liminal space when the morning light remains undecided. The steady, repetitive sound of sweeping drifts in from the street. This rhythmic sound emphasizes my stillness as I remain half-asleep, musing on a monk who remains a stranger to my physical experience. Merely fragmented memories. General impressions.
The term "revered" is frequently applied when people discuss him. It’s a heavy word, isn't it? 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. One perceives a distinct sense of moderation in that space. I am often thinking about that sense of restraint. It feels entirely disconnected from contemporary society. Contemporary life is dominated by reaction, speed, and the need for recognition. Jatila Sayadaw appears to inhabit a fundamentally different cadence. A temporal sense where time is not for optimization or check here control. One simply dwells within it. Such a notion is attractive in theory, but I believe the application is considerably harder.
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. In this image, he is walking—simply moving along a monastery trail with downcast eyes and balanced steps. It isn't a performative movement. The movement is not intended for witnesses, even if people are looking on. Perhaps I am viewing it too romantically, yet that is the version that lingers.
It is strange that there are no common stories about his personality. One does not find clever tales or sharp aphorisms being shared as tokens of his life. The focus remains solely on his rigor and his unwavering persistence. It's as if his persona faded to allow the tradition to speak. I occasionally muse on that idea. Whether letting the "self" vanish in such a way is a form of freedom or a form of confinement. I lack the conclusion; perhaps I am not even posing the right question.
The light is at last beginning to alter, increasing in brightness. I looked back at my writing and nearly decided to remove it all. The writing appears a little chaotic, maybe even somewhat without consequence. But maybe that’s the point. Reflecting on Jatila Sayadaw highlights the sheer amount of unnecessary noise I produce. How much I feel the need to fill up the silence with something "useful." He is the embodiment of the opposite drive. He wasn't silent just for the sake of quiet; he simply didn't seem to need anything superfluous.
I'll end it there. This writing is not a biography in any formal sense. I am simply noting how particular names endure, even when one is not consciously grasping them. They just linger. Unwavering.