I have been contemplating the idea of pillars quite a bit lately. I don't mean the fancy, aesthetic ones that adorn the entrances of museums, but those essential supports positioned out of sight that remain unnoticed until you realize they are the sole reason the roof hasn't collapsed. That is the image that persists when I think of Mya Sein Taung Sayadaw. He was not an individual who sought the limelight. In the context of Burmese Theravāda Buddhism, his presence was just... constant. Stable and dependable. He seemed to value the actual practice infinitely more than his own reputation.
A Life Rooted in Tradition
To be fair, he seemed like a figure from a much older time. He came from a lineage that followed patient, traditional cycles of learning and rigor —without the need for rapid progress or convenient "fixes" for the soul. With absolute faith in the Pāḷi scriptures and the Vinaya, he stayed dedicated to their rules. I often wonder if this is the most courageous way to live —to remain so firmly anchored in the ancestral ways of the Dhamma. We are often preoccupied with "improving" or "adapting" the Dhamma to ensure it fits easily into our modern routines, but he served as a quiet proof that the original framework still functions, provided one actually follows it with sincerity.
Meditation as the Act of Remaining
Those who studied with him mention the word "staying" more than any other instruction. The significance of that term has stayed with me all day long. Staying. He insisted that one should not use meditation to chase after exciting states or reaching a spectacular or theatrical mental condition.
The practice is nothing more than learning how to stay.
• Stay with the breath.
• Stay with the consciousness even when it starts to wander.
• Stay with the ache instead of attempting to manipulate it immediately.
It is significantly more difficult than it sounds. I often find myself wanting to escape the second I feel uneasy, but his entire life suggested that the only way to understand something is to stop running from it.
A Legacy of Humility and Persistence
I reflect on how he addressed the difficult states—the boredom, the doubt, the restlessness. He did not treat them as problems to be resolved. He simply saw them as phenomena to be known. It is a small adjustment, but it fundamentally alters the path. It removes the "striving" from the equation. It moves from an attempt to govern consciousness to an act of direct observation.
He didn't seek to build an international brand or attract thousands of followers, yet his effect is lasting precisely because of its silent nature. He focused on training people. And those individuals became teachers, carrying that same humility forward. His effectiveness was not dependent on being recognized.
I am starting to see that the Dhamma requires no modernization or added "excitement." It simply requires commitment and honesty. In a world that is here perpetually shouting for our attention, his example points in the opposite direction—toward something simple and deep. His name may not be widely recognized, and that is perfectly fine. True power often moves without making a sound. It molds the future without ever wanting a reward. I am trying to absorb that tonight—just the quiet, steady weight of it.