It is often a minor detail that sets it off. In this instance, it was the noise of pages adhering to one another when I tried to flip through an old book resting in proximity to the window. It's a common result of humidity. I found myself hesitating for a long moment, pulling the pages apart one at a time, and his name drifted back to me, softly and without warning.
There is something enigmatic about figures of such respect. You don’t actually see them very much. Or maybe you see them, but only from a distance, filtered through stories, recollections, half-remembered quotes whose origins have become blurred over time. In the case of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, I perceive him through his voids. The absence of spectacle. The absence of urgency. The absence of explanation. Such silences communicate more than a multitude of words.
I once remember posing a question to someone regarding his character. In an indirect and informal manner. Only an offhand query, no different from asking about the rain. The person gave a nod and a faint smile, then remarked “Ah, Sayadaw… remarkably consistent.” There was no further explanation given. Initially, I experienced a touch of letdown. Today, I consider that answer to have been entirely appropriate.
Here, it is the middle of the afternoon. The room is filled with a neutral, unornamented light. I find myself sitting on the floor today, for no identifiable cause. Perhaps my spine desired a different sort of challenge this morning. I find myself contemplating steadiness and its actual uniqueness. We talk about wisdom a lot, but steadiness feels harder. Wisdom is something we can respect from the outside. Steadiness has to be lived next to, day after day.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw lived through so much change. Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding that characterizes the modern history of Burma. And yet, when people speak of him, they don’t talk about opinions or positions. They focus on the consistency of his character. As if he was a reference point that didn’t move while everything else did. It is hard to grasp how he avoided rigidity while staying so firm. That level of balance seems nearly impossible to maintain.
I frequently return to a specific, minor memory, although I am not certain the event occurred exactly as I recall. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as though he possessed all the time in the world. Perhaps that monk was not Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw at all. Recollections have a way of blending people's identities. But the sense of the moment remained strong. That sense of not being rushed by the world’s expectations.
I frequently ponder the price of living such a life. I do not mean in a grand way, but in the small details of each day. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. Missing conversations you could have had. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Permitting individuals to superimpose their own needs upon your image. I do not know if such thoughts ever entered his mind. Perhaps he was free of such concerns, and maybe that's the key.
There is a layer of dust on my hands from the paper. I remove the dust without much thought. The act of writing this feels almost superfluous, and I say that with respect. Utility is not the only measure of value. At times, it is enough just to admit. that certain lives leave an imprint without the need for self-justification. I perceive Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw in exactly that way. An influence that more info is experienced rather than analyzed, as it should be.