Often, a trivial event serves as the catalyst. In this instance, it was the noise of pages adhering to one another as I attempted to leaf through an ancient volume resting in proximity to the window. Humidity does that. My pause was more extended than required, carefully detaching the sheets individually, and his name emerged once more, silent and uninvited.
There’s something strange about respected figures like him. They are not frequently seen in the public eye. One might see them, yet only from a detached viewpoint, filtered through stories, recollections, half-remembered quotes which lack a definitive source. In the case of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, I perceive him through his voids. Devoid of theatricality, devoid of pressure, and devoid of excuse. These very voids speak more eloquently than any speech.
I remember once asking someone about him. It wasn't a direct or official inquiry. Only an offhand query, no different from asking about the rain. The individual inclined their head, gave a slight smile, and replied “Ah, Sayadaw… remarkably consistent.” There was no further explanation given. In that instance, I felt a minor sense of disappointment. Looking back, I realize the answer was ideal.
It’s mid-afternoon where I am. The light is dull, not golden, not dramatic. Just light. For no particular reason, I am seated on the floor instead of the furniture. Perhaps my spine desired a different sort of challenge this morning. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. It is easy to admire wisdom from a distance. Steadiness must be lived in close proximity, throughout each day.
The life of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw spanned an era of great upheaval. Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding which appears to be the hallmark of contemporary Myanmar's history. And yet, when people speak of him, they don’t talk about opinions or here positions. They speak primarily of his consistency. As if he was a reference point that didn’t move while everything else did. I’m not sure how someone manages that without becoming rigid. That level of balance seems nearly impossible to maintain.
I frequently return to a specific, minor memory, though I can’t even be sure it really happened the way I remember it. An image of a monk arranging his robes with great deliberation, as if there was no other place he needed to be. That might not even have been Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory blurs people together. However, the emotion associated with it persisted. That feeling of being unhurried by the expectations of the world.
I frequently ponder the price of living such a life. I do not mean in a grand way, but in the small details of each day. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. The dialogues that were never held. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Allowing others to project whatever they need onto you. Whether he reflected on these matters is unknown to me. Maybe he was beyond such thoughts, which could be the entire point.
My hands have become dusty from handling the book. I wipe it away without thinking. The act of writing this feels almost superfluous, and I say that with respect. There is no requirement for every thought to be practical. On occasion, it is sufficient simply to recognize. that some lives leave a deep impression. never having sought to explain their own nature. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw is such a figure in my eyes. A presence felt more than understood, and maybe meant to stay that way.