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'm unsure why Beelin Sayadaw haunts my reflections tonight. It might be due to the feeling that everything has been reduced to its barest form. No inspiration. No sweetness. Just this dry, steady sense of needing to sit anyway. There is a subtle discomfort in the quiet, as if the room were waiting for a resolution. I'm resting against the wall in a posture that is neither ideal nor disastrous; it exists in that intermediate space that defines my current state.
Discipline Without the Fireworks
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. It is discipline devoid of drama, a feat that honestly seems far more difficult.
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 realize my shoulders have tensed up; I lower them, only for them to rise again within a few breaths. It is a predictable cycle. 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 waste a vast amount of energy in self-negotiation, attempting to ease the difficulty or validate my shortcuts. 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. I also argued that it wasn't important, which might be true, but only because I wanted an excuse. That small dishonesty lingered all evening. Not guilt exactly. More like static. Thinking of Beelin Sayadaw brings that static into focus. Not to judge it. Just to see it clearly.
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. It is merely routine and repetition—the same directions followed indefinitely. Sit down. Walk mindfully. Label experiences. Follow the precepts. Rest. Rise. Repeat. 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.
I can feel a tingling sensation in my foot—the typical pins and needles. I simply observe it. The mind wants to comment, to narrate. It always does. I don’t stop it. I just don't allow myself to get caught up in the narrative, which feels like the heart of the practice. Not force. Not indulgence. Just firmness.
Tiny Corrections: How Discipline Actually Works
I become aware that my breath click here has been shallow; the tension in my chest releases the moment I perceive it. No big moment. Just a small adjustment. That’s how discipline works too, I think. Not dramatic corrections. Tiny ones, repeated until they stick.
Reflecting on Beelin Sayadaw doesn't excite me; instead, it brings a sense of sobriety and groundedness. It leaves me feeling anchored and perhaps a bit vulnerable, as if my justifications have no power here. And strangely, that is a source of comfort—the relief of not needing to perform a "spiritual" role, in simply doing the work in a quiet, flawed manner, without anticipation of a spectacular outcome.
The night continues, my body remains seated, and my 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.