Beelin Sayadaw crosses my mind on nights when discipline feels lonely, unglamorous, and way less spiritual than people online make it sound. I don’t know why Beelin Sayadaw comes to mind tonight. Maybe because everything feels stripped down. There is no creative spark or spiritual joy—only a blunt, persistent awareness that I must continue to sit. The silence in the room is somewhat uneasy, as if the space itself is in a state of anticipation. 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.
Discipline Without the Fireworks
Most people associate Burmese Theravāda with extreme rigor or the various "insight stages," all of which carry a certain intellectual weight. Beelin Sayadaw, at least how I’ve encountered him through stories and fragments, feels quieter than that. His path isn't defined by spiritual "fireworks" but by a simple, no-nonsense commitment to showing up. Discipline without drama. Which honestly feels harder.
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.
Cutting Through the Mental Noise
I imagine Beelin Sayadaw as a teacher who would be entirely indifferent to my mental excuses. Not in a cold way. Just… not interested. Meditation is just meditation. The rules are just rules. You either follow them or you 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 is not a negotiator; it simply waits for you to return.
I missed a meditation session earlier today, justifying it by saying I was exhausted—which was a fact. Also told myself it didn’t matter. Which might be true too, but not in the way I wanted it to be. 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
Discipline is fundamentally unexciting; it provides no catchy revelations to share and no cathartic releases. Just routine. Repetition. The same instructions again and again. Sit. Walk. Note. Keep the rules. Sleep. Wake up. Do it again. I imagine Beelin Sayadaw embodying that rhythm, not as an idea but as a lived thing. Years, then decades of it. Such unyielding consistency is somewhat intimidating.
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 simply refuse to engage with the thoughts for long, which seems to be the core of this tradition. Not force. Not indulgence. Just firmness.
The Relief of Sober Practice
I notice that my breathing has been constricted; as soon as the awareness lands, my chest relaxes. No big moment. Just a small adjustment. That’s how discipline works too, I think. Not dramatic corrections. Tiny ones, repeated until they stick.
Contemplating Beelin Sayadaw doesn't provide a sense of inspiration; rather, it makes me feel sober and clear. I feel grounded here and somewhat exposed, as if my excuses are irrelevant in his presence. And strangely, that is a source of comfort—the relief of not needing to perform a "spiritual" role, in merely doing the daily work quietly and imperfectly, without the need for anything special to occur.
The night continues, my body remains seated, and my mind drifts and returns repeatedly. Nothing flashy. Nothing profound. Just this steady, ordinary effort. And maybe that’s exactly the point.