I find myself wondering where I first heard the name Jatila Sayadaw, yet my memory refuses to provide a clear answer. It wasn't as if there was a definitive event or an official presentation. It is like the realization that a tree on your grounds is now massive, without having any clear recollection of the actual growing process? It has just become a fixture. His name was just there, familiar in a way I never really questioned.
I’m sitting here now, early— not quite at the moment of sunrise, but in that grey, liminal space when the light hasn't quite made up its mind yet. I can hear someone sweeping outside, a really steady, rhythmic sound. This rhythmic sound emphasizes my stillness as I remain half-asleep, reflecting on a monastic with whom I had no direct contact. Just fragments. Impressions.
He is often described with the word "revered" in various conversations. It is a descriptor that carries considerable gravity. When spoken in relation to Jatila Sayadaw, it doesn't come across as loud or rigid. It suggests a quality of... profound care. It is as though people choose their vocabulary more carefully when discussing him. There is a feeling of great restraint in his legacy. I find myself reflecting on this quality—the quality of restraint. It feels so out of place these days, doesn't it? Most other things prioritize immediate response, rapid pace, and public visibility. He seems to belong to a completely different rhythm. A rhythm in which time is not a resource to be managed or exploited. You simply exist in it. That concept is elegant in writing, though I suspect the reality is far more demanding.
I have this image of him in my head, even though I may have fabricated it from pieces of past stories and memories. He is walking slowly down a monastery path, with his eyes lowered and his steps even. There is no hint of a performance in his gait. He is not acting for the benefit of observers, regardless of who might be present. I am likely romanticizing the scene, but that is how he remains in my thoughts.
Curiously, there is a lack of anecdotal lore about his specific personality. No one passes around clever anecdotes or humorous sayings as mementos of him. The conversation invariably centers on more info his self-control and his consistency. It appears as though his individuality... receded to allow the lineage to find its own voice. I think about that on occasion. Whether it is experienced as liberation to let the "ego" fade, or if it feels restrictive. I am unsure; I may not even be asking the most relevant question.
The daylight has begun to transition at last, growing more luminous. I've been reviewing this text and I nearly chose to delete it. The reflection seems somewhat disorganized, perhaps even a bit futile. But perhaps that is the actual point. Thinking of him brings to light how much mental and verbal noise I usually create. The frequency with which I attempt to fill the stillness with something "valuable." He seems to be the opposite of that. He wasn't silent for the sake of being quiet; he just didn't seem to need anything extra.
I'll end it there. These words do not constitute a formal biography. I am simply noting how particular names endure, even when one is not consciously grasping them. They just linger. Unwavering.