I’ve been trying to figure out when I first came across the name of Jatila Sayadaw, but my recollection remains unhelpful. It wasn't as if there was a definitive event or a formal announcement. It resembles the experience of noticing a tree on your property has matured significantly, though the actual progression of its growth was never consciously witnessed? It is simply a part of the landscape. The name Jatila Sayadaw was simply present, possessing a familiarity that required no explanation.
I find myself seated at this early hour— not exactly at the break of dawn, but during that hazy, transitional period where the daylight is still hesitant. From outdoors comes the sound of someone sweeping, a constant and rhythmic noise. It highlights my own lack of motion as I sit here, partially awake, thinking about a monk I never actually met, at least not in any way that counts. Merely fragmented memories. General impressions.
People use the word "revered" a lot when they talk about him. It is a word that possesses a certain weight. Yet, when applied to Jatila Sayadaw, the word loses its theatrical or official tone. It feels more like... a deliberate carefulness. As if individuals become more cautious with their speech whenever his name is mentioned. A palpable sense of self-control accompanies his memory. I am often thinking about that sense of restraint. It feels entirely disconnected from contemporary society. Everything else is about reaction, speed, being seen. He seems to belong to a completely different rhythm. A temporal sense where time is not for optimization or control. One simply dwells within it. That concept is elegant in writing, though I suspect the reality is far more demanding.
I maintain a specific mental visualization of him, although it may be an assembly of old narratives and various impressions. He is pacing slowly on a monastery path, gaze lowered, his stride perfectly steady. It does not appear to be an act. He isn't performing for others, even if there were onlookers nearby. I may be romanticizing it, but that is the image that remains.
Interestingly, one rarely hears "personality-driven" anecdotes about him. One does not find clever tales or sharp aphorisms being shared as tokens of his life. The conversation invariably centers on his self-control and his consistency. As if his individual self... withdrew to provide a space for the tradition to manifest. I find myself contemplating that possibility. If the disappearance of the "self" is perceived as an expansive freedom or a narrowing of experience. I lack the conclusion; perhaps I am not even posing the right question.
The light is at last beginning to alter, increasing in brightness. I’ve been looking over what I’ve written and I almost deleted it. The reflection seems somewhat disorganized, perhaps even a bit futile. But perhaps that is the actual point. Thinking about him makes me realize how much noise I usually make. The extent to which I feel compelled to occupy every silence with something "productive." He appears to be the reverse of that. He wasn't silent for the sake of being quiet; he just didn't seem to need anything extra.
I’m just going to leave it at that. This isn't really a biography or anything. It's just me jatila sayadaw noticing how some names linger, even when you aren't trying to hold onto them. They just linger. Unwavering.