A tiny spark is usually enough to ignite the memory. In this instance, it was the noise of pages adhering to one another as I turned the pages of a long-neglected book left beside the window for too long. That is the effect of damp air. I paused longer than necessary, methodically dividing each page, and somehow his name surfaced again, quietly, without asking.
There’s something strange about respected figures like him. One rarely encounters them in a direct sense. Or perhaps they are perceived only from afar, perceived via the medium of lore, recollections, and broken quotes which lack a definitive source. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. The void of drama, the void of rush, and the void of commentary. These very voids speak more eloquently than any speech.
I recall an occasion when I inquired about him. Not directly, not in a formal way. Merely an incidental inquiry, as if discussing the day's weather. The person nodded, smiled a little, and said something like, “Ah, Sayadaw… remarkably consistent.” That was it. No elaboration. At the time, I felt slightly disappointed. Now I think that response was perfect.
It’s mid-afternoon where I am. The day is filled with a muted, unexceptional light. I find myself sitting on the floor today, for no identifiable cause. It could be that my back was looking for a different sensation this afternoon. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. One can appreciate wisdom from a great distance. Steadiness has to be lived next to, day after day.
Throughout his years, Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw endured vast shifts Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding which appears to be the hallmark of contemporary Myanmar's history. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They emphasize his remarkable consistency. He was like a fixed coordinate in a landscape of constant motion. It is difficult to understand how one can maintain that state without turning stiff. That balance feels almost impossible.
I frequently return to a specific, minor memory, even though I cannot verify if the memory matches the reality. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as though he were in no hurry to go anywhere else. It is possible that the figure was not actually Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory tends to merge separate figures over time. Nonetheless, the impression remained. That feeling of being unhurried by the expectations of the world.
I frequently ponder the price of living such a life. Not in a theatrical way, but in the subtle daily price. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. Forgoing interactions that might have taken place. Letting misunderstandings stand. Accepting the projections of others without complaint. I don’t know if he thought about these things. Perhaps he was free of such concerns, and maybe that's the key.
There is a layer of dust on my hands from the paper. I remove the dust without much thought. Writing this feels slightly unnecessary, and I mean that in a good way. Utility is not the only measure of value. Sometimes, the simple act of acknowledgement is enough. that certain existences leave a lasting trace. never having sought read more to explain their own nature. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw is such a figure in my eyes. An influence that is experienced rather than analyzed, as it should be.