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. The reason Beelin Sayadaw surfaces in my mind tonight is unclear; perhaps it is because my surroundings feel so stark. No inspiration. No sweetness. Just this dry, steady sense of needing to sit anyway. The room’s quiet in that slightly uncomfortable way, like it’s waiting for something. 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.
Beelin Sayadaw: The Antidote to Spiritual Drama
Most people associate Burmese Theravāda with extreme rigor or the various "insight stages," all of which carry a certain intellectual weight. However, the version of Beelin Sayadaw I know from anecdotes and scattered records seems much more understated. His path isn't defined by spiritual "fireworks" but by a simple, no-nonsense commitment to showing up. 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. There is a restlessness in my mind that isn't wild, but rather like a loyal, bored animal pacing back and forth. 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.
The Silence of Real Commitment
Beelin Sayadaw strikes me as the type of master who would have zero interest in my internal dialogue. It wouldn't be out of coldness; he simply wouldn't be interested. Practice is practice. Posture is posture. Precepts are precepts. Do 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. True discipline offers no bargains; it simply remains, waiting for your sincerity.
Earlier today, I skipped a sit. Told myself I was tired. Which was true. I also argued that it wasn't important, which might be true, but only because I wanted an excuse. 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.
Finding Firmness in the Middle of Numbness
Discipline is fundamentally unexciting; it provides no catchy revelations to share and no cathartic releases. It is nothing but a cycle of routine and the endless repetition website of basic tasks. Sit. Walk. Note. Maintain the rules. Sleep. Wake. Start 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.
I can feel a tingling sensation in my foot—the typical pins and needles. I simply observe it. My mind is eager to narrate the experience, as is its habit. I don't try to suppress 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.
Grounded in the Presence of Beelin Sayadaw
I notice that my breathing has been constricted; as soon as the awareness lands, my chest relaxes. It isn't a significant event, just a small shift. I believe that's the true nature of discipline. Success doesn't come from dramatic shifts, but from tiny, consistent corrections that eventually take root.
Thinking of Beelin Sayadaw doesn’t make me feel inspired. It makes me feel sober. It leaves me feeling anchored and perhaps a bit vulnerable, as if my justifications have no power 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 hours pass, the physical form remains still, and the mind wanders away only to be brought back again. Nothing flashy. Nothing profound. Just this steady, ordinary effort. And maybe that’s exactly the point.