I have attempted to trace the origin of when I first came across the name of Jatila Sayadaw, but my mind offers no clarity on the matter. It’s not like there was a specific moment or any significant introduction. It is akin to realizing a tree in your garden has become unexpectedly large, yet the day-to-day stages of its growth have escaped your memory? It is simply a part of the landscape. By the time I noticed it, his name was already an unquestioned and familiar presence.
I find myself seated at this early hour— not exactly at the break of dawn, but during that hazy, transitional period when the morning light remains undecided. I can hear someone sweeping outside, a really steady, rhythmic sound. It makes me feel somewhat idle as I sit here in a state of semi-awareness, contemplating a monk I never met in person. Just fragments. Impressions.
The term "revered" is frequently applied when people discuss 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 conveys a sense of... meticulous attention. As if individuals become more cautious with their speech whenever his name is mentioned. There is a feeling of great restraint in his legacy. I find myself reflecting on this quality—the quality of restraint. It seems quite unusual in this day and age. The modern world values reaction, haste, and the desire for attention. He feels as if he belonged to a different drumbeat altogether. A state where time is not viewed as something to be "hacked" or maximized. You simply exist in it. While that idea is appealing on paper, I imagine it is much more difficult to realize in practice.
I find myself returning to a certain image in my mind, 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. There is no hint of a performance in his gait. He isn't performing for others, even if there were onlookers nearby. I am likely romanticizing the scene, but that is how he remains in my thoughts.
It’s funny, no one really tells "personality" stories about him. There are jatila sayadaw no clever anecdotes or witty sayings that people pass around like souvenirs. Discussion always returns to his discipline and his seamless practice. It appears as though his individuality... receded to allow the lineage to find its own voice. 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 daylight has begun to transition at last, growing more luminous. I’ve been looking over what I’ve written and I almost deleted it. It feels somewhat fragmented, or possibly without any clear purpose. But perhaps that is the actual point. Thinking about him highlights how much noise I typically add to the world. How much I feel the need to fill up the silence with something "useful." He seems to personify the reverse of that tendency. He did not choose silence merely to be still; he simply required nothing additional.
I shall conclude my thoughts here. These words do not constitute a formal biography. It is just me noting how some names stay with you even without effort. They merely endure. Stable.