My thoughts have frequently returned to the metaphor of pillars over the last few days. I'm not talking about the grand, symbolic pillars you might see on the front of a gallery, but rather the ones buried deep within a structure that are never acknowledged until you see they are the only things keeping the roof from coming down. That is the image that persists when I think of Mya Sein Taung Sayadaw. He appeared entirely uninterested in seeking fame or recognition. In the context of Burmese Theravāda Buddhism, his presence was just... constant. Constant and trustworthy. He appeared to care far more about the Dhamma itself than any status he might have gained.
A Life Rooted in Tradition
It feels like he was a representative of a bygone generation. He came from a lineage that followed patient, traditional cycles of learning and rigor —rejecting all shortcuts and modern "hacks" for awakening. He relied entirely on the Pāḷi texts and monastic discipline, never deviating from them. I sometimes ask myself if that level of fidelity is the bravest path —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 proved through his silence that the more info original structure still works, on the condition that it is followed with total honesty.
The Discipline of Staying in the Present
His practitioners frequently recall his stress on the act of "staying." I find that single word "staying" resonating deeply within me today. Staying. He would instruct them that meditation is not about collecting experiences or achieving some dramatic, cinematic state of mind.
It is merely the discipline of staying present.
• Remain with the breathing process.
• Stay with the mind when it becomes restless.
• Abide with physical discomfort rather than trying to escape it.
In practice, this is incredibly demanding. I am usually inclined to find a way out as soon as things become uncomfortable, yet his life proved that we only comprehend reality when we stop trying to avoid it.
The Depth of Quiet Influence
I reflect on how he addressed the difficult states—the boredom, the doubt, the restlessness. He didn't perceive them as problems to be overcome. He simply saw them as phenomena to be known. This minor change in perspective transforms the whole meditative experience. It removes the "striving" from the equation. The practice becomes less about controlling the mind and more about perceiving it clearly.
He wasn't a world traveler with a global audience, but his impact feels profound precisely because it was so understated. His primary work was the guidance of his students. In turn, those students became guides, preserving that same humble spirit. His effectiveness was not dependent on being recognized.
I've reached the conclusion that the Dhamma doesn't need to be repackaged or made "interesting." The only thing it demands is commitment and integrity. While our world is always vying for our attention, his legacy leads us elsewhere—toward a simple and deep truth. He may not be a name that is known by everyone, but that is acceptable. Authentic power usually moves silently anyway. It transforms things without ever demanding praise. Tonight, I am reflecting on that, simply the quiet weight of his presence.