I find myself thinking of Beelin Sayadaw on nights when the effort to stay disciplined feels solitary, dull, and entirely disconnected from the romanticized versions of spirituality found online. The reason Beelin Sayadaw surfaces in my mind tonight is unclear; perhaps it is because my surroundings feel so stark. Inspiration and sweetness are absent; what remains is a dry, constant realization that the practice must go on regardless. There is a subtle discomfort in the quiet, as if the room were waiting for a resolution. My back is leaning against the wall—not perfectly aligned, yet not completely collapsed. It is somewhere in the middle, which feels like a recurring theme.
Beyond the Insight Stages: The Art of Showing Up
Discussions on Burmese Theravāda typically focus on the intensity of effort or the technical stages of insight—concepts that sound very precise and significant. However, the version of Beelin Sayadaw I know from anecdotes and scattered records seems much more understated. Less about fireworks, more about showing up and not messing around. There is no theater in his discipline, which makes the work feel considerably more demanding.
It’s late. The clock says 1:47 a.m. I keep checking even though time doesn’t matter right now. There is a restlessness in my mind that isn't wild, but rather like a loyal, bored animal pacing back and forth. I become aware of the tension in my shoulders and release it, yet they tighten again almost immediately. Typical. I feel the usual pain in my lower back, the one that arrives the moment the practice ceases to feel like a choice and starts to feel like work.
The Silence of Real Commitment
I imagine Beelin Sayadaw as a teacher who would be entirely indifferent to my mental excuses. Not because he was unkind, but because the commentary is irrelevant to the work. Meditation is just meditation. The rules are just rules. You either follow them or you don't. But the core is honesty; that sharp realization clears away much of my mental static. I exert so much effort trying to bargain with my mind, seeking to justify my own laziness or lack of focus. Discipline is not a negotiator; it simply waits for you to return.
I chose not to sit earlier, convincing myself I was too tired, which wasn't a lie. Also told myself it didn’t matter. Which might be true too, but not in the way I wanted it to be. That minor lack of integrity stayed with me all night—not as guilt, but as a persistent mental static. The memory of Beelin Sayadaw sharpens that internal noise, allowing me to witness it without the need to judge.
Finding Firmness in the Middle of Numbness
There’s something deeply unsexy about discipline. No insights to post about. No emotional release. It is merely routine and repetition—the same directions followed indefinitely. Sit down. Walk mindfully. Label experiences. Follow the precepts. Rest. Rise. Repeat. I can picture Beelin Sayadaw inhabiting that rhythm, not as an abstract concept, but as his everyday existence. He lived it for years, then decades. That level of dedication is almost frightening.
My foot has gone numb and is now tingling; I choose to let it remain as it is. My mind is eager to narrate the experience, as is its habit. I don't try to suppress it. I simply refuse to engage with the thoughts for long, which seems to be the core of this tradition. It is neither a matter of suppression nor indulgence, but simply a quiet firmness.
The Relief of Sober Practice
I become aware that my breath has been shallow; the tension in my chest releases the moment I perceive it. It isn't a significant event, just a small shift. I believe that's the true nature of discipline. Success doesn't come from dramatic shifts, but from tiny, consistent corrections that eventually take root.
Reflecting on Beelin Sayadaw doesn't excite me; instead, it brings a sense of sobriety and groundedness. I feel grounded and somewhat exposed, as if my excuses are irrelevant in his presence. And weirdly, that’s comforting. There’s relief in not check here having to perform spirituality, in just doing the work quietly, imperfectly, without expecting anything special to happen.
The hours pass, the physical form remains still, and the mind wanders away only to be brought back again. There is nothing spectacular or deep about it—only this constant, ordinary exertion. And maybe that’s exactly the point.