I have been searching for the moment the exact instance I first encountered the title of Jatila Sayadaw, but my memory is being stubborn. There was no grand occasion or an official presentation. It is similar to the way one observes that a tree in the yard has become quite tall, though the actual progression of its growth was never consciously witnessed? It simply exists. His name was already a part of my consciousness, so familiar that I took it for granted.
Currently, I am sitting in the quiet of early morning— not exactly at the break of dawn, but during that hazy, transitional period when the morning light remains undecided. The steady, repetitive sound of sweeping drifts in from the street. It creates a sense of lethargy as I sit in a semi-conscious state, musing on a monk who remains a stranger to my physical experience. Only small fragments and fleeting impressions.
In discussions of his life, the word "revered" is used quite often. That is a word with significant weight, is it not? But when they say it about Jatila Sayadaw, it doesn’t sound loud or formal. It sounds more like... a quiet precision. Like people are just a little more deliberate with their words when his name comes up. One perceives a distinct sense of moderation in that space. I keep thinking about that—restraint. It appears remarkably inconsistent with today's trends, wouldn't you say? Current trends are all about reaction, speed, and visibility. He appears to move to a different rhythm. A state where time is not viewed as something to be "hacked" or maximized. You simply exist in it. Such a notion is attractive in theory, but I believe the application is considerably harder.
I find myself returning to a certain image in my mind, even if it is a construction based on fragments of lore and other perceptions. He is walking slowly down a monastery path, with his eyes jatila sayadaw lowered and his steps even. It does not appear to be an act. He is not seeking an audience, even if he is being watched. I’m probably romanticizing it, but that’s the version of him that stays with me.
It is strange that there are no common stories about his personality. There are no clever anecdotes or witty sayings that people pass around like souvenirs. People only speak of his discipline and his continuity. It's as if his persona faded to allow the tradition to speak. I sometimes reflect on that phenomenon. Whether letting the "self" vanish in such a way is a form of freedom or a form of confinement. I'm not sure if I'm even asking the correct question.
The morning light is eventually shifting, becoming more intense. I've been reviewing this text and I nearly chose to delete it. The writing appears a little chaotic, maybe even somewhat without consequence. However, perhaps that is precisely the essence of it. Pondering his life reveals the noise I typically contribute to the world. The frequency with which I attempt to fill the stillness with something "valuable." He appears to represent the contrary impulse. He wasn't silent just for the sake of quiet; he simply didn't seem to need anything superfluous.
I’m just going to leave it at that. These words do not constitute a formal biography. It's just me noticing how some names linger, even when you aren't trying to hold onto them. They simply remain. Consistent.