I find myself wondering where I first heard the name Jatila Sayadaw, but my mind offers no clarity on the matter. There was no distinct starting point or a formal announcement. It resembles the experience of noticing a tree on your property has matured significantly, without having any clear recollection of the actual growing process? It simply exists. His name was just there, familiar in a way I never really questioned.
I find myself seated at this early hour— not quite at the moment of sunrise, but in that grey, liminal space when the sky has yet to choose its color. The steady, repetitive sound of sweeping drifts in from the street. It makes me feel somewhat idle as I sit here in a state of semi-awareness, pondering a member of the Sangha I never personally encountered, at least not formally. Only scattered pieces. Mental perceptions.
Many individuals use the adjective "revered" to characterize him. It is a descriptor that carries considerable gravity. When spoken in relation to Jatila Sayadaw, it doesn't come across as loud or rigid. It sounds more like... carefulness. It is as though people choose their vocabulary more carefully when discussing him. A palpable sense of self-control accompanies his memory. I continue to ponder that specific trait—restraint. Such a characteristic seems quite foreign in the modern world, does it not? Current trends are all about reaction, speed, and visibility. He appears to move to a different rhythm. One where time isn't something you try to hack or optimize. One simply dwells within it. That concept is elegant in writing, though I suspect the reality is far more demanding.
There is a particular mental picture of him that I carry, though I might have just made it up from bits of old stories or other things I've seen. He’s walking. Just walking down a monastery path, eyes down, steps completely even. There is no hint of a performance in his gait. He’s not doing it for an audience, even if people happened to be watching. I’m probably romanticizing it, but that’s the version of him that stays with me.
It is strange that there are no common stories about his personality. There is an absence of witty stories or memorable quotes being circulated like keepsakes. It’s always just talk of his discipline. His continuity. It's as if his persona faded to allow the tradition to speak. I wonder about that sometimes. Whether it feels like a form of liberty or a restriction to let the self vanish. I do not have the answer; I am not even certain if that is the correct inquiry.
The light is at last beginning to alter, increasing in brightness. I’ve been looking over what I’ve written and I jatila sayadaw almost deleted it. It feels a bit disorganized and perhaps a little futile. But perhaps that is the actual point. Thinking about him highlights how much noise I typically add to the world. How often I feel the need to fill the silence with something considered useful. He seems to be the opposite of that. He wasn't silent for the sake of being quiet; he just didn't seem to need anything extra.
I shall conclude my thoughts here. This is not intended to be a biographical account. It is just a realization of how certain names stay with you, even when you aren't trying to keep them. They just stay there, steady.