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. I don’t know why Beelin Sayadaw comes to mind tonight. Maybe because everything feels stripped down. 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.
The Quiet Rigor of Burmese Theravāda
When people talk about Burmese Theravāda, they usually highlight intensity or rigor or insight stages, all very sharp and impressive-sounding. Beelin Sayadaw, at least how I’ve encountered him through stories and fragments, feels quieter than that. Less about fireworks, more about showing up and not messing around. Discipline without drama. Which honestly feels harder.
The hour is late—1:47 a.m. according to the clock—and I continue to glance at it despite its irrelevance. The mind’s restless but not wild. More like a dog pacing the room, bored but loyal. I notice my shoulders are raised. I drop them. They come back up five breaths later. Typical. A dull ache has settled in my lower back—a familiar companion that appears once the novelty of sitting has faded.
Cutting Through the Mental Noise
I imagine Beelin Sayadaw as a teacher who would be entirely indifferent to my mental excuses. It wouldn't be out of coldness; he simply wouldn't be interested. The work is the work. The posture is the posture. The rules are the rules. Either engage with them or don’t. The only requirement is to be honest with yourself, a perspective that slices through my internal clutter. I spend so much energy negotiating with myself, trying to soften things, justify shortcuts. Discipline doesn’t negotiate. It just waits.
I missed a meditation session earlier today, justifying it by saying I was exhausted—which was a fact. I also claimed it was inconsequential, which might be true, though not in the way I intended. That tiny piece of dishonesty hung over my evening, not like a heavy weight, but like a faint, annoying buzz. The memory of Beelin Sayadaw sharpens that internal noise, allowing me to witness it without the need to judge.
The Weight of Decades: Consistency as Practice
There is absolutely nothing "glamorous" about real discipline; it offers no profound insights for social media and no dramatic emotional peaks. Just routine. Repetition. The same instructions again and again. Sit. Walk. Note. Keep the rules. Sleep. Wake up. Do it again. I can picture Beelin Sayadaw inhabiting that rhythm, not as an abstract concept, but as his everyday existence. Years of it. Decades. That kind of consistency scares me a little.
My foot’s tingling now. Pins and needles. I let it be. My mind is eager to narrate the experience, as is its habit. I don't try to suppress it. I just don’t follow it very far. That feels close to what this tradition is pointing at. It is neither a matter of suppression nor indulgence, but simply a quiet firmness.
Grounded in the Presence of Beelin Sayadaw
I notice that my breathing has been constricted; as soon as the awareness lands, my chest relaxes. There is no grand revelation, only a minor correction. I suspect that is how discipline operates as well. Not dramatic corrections. Tiny ones, repeated until they stick.
Thinking of Beelin Sayadaw doesn’t make me feel inspired. It makes me feel sober. Grounded. Slightly exposed. Like excuses don’t hold much weight here. In a strange way, that is deeply reassuring; there is relief in abandoning the performance of being "spiritual," in just doing the work quietly, imperfectly, without expecting anything special to happen.
The night continues, my body remains seated, and my check here mind drifts and returns repeatedly. There is nothing spectacular or deep about it—only this constant, ordinary exertion. And maybe that’s exactly the point.