Our current society is profoundly preoccupied with constant validation. Think about it—every time we do something, we’re looking for a "like," a comment, or some kind of validation that we’re on the right track. This translates into our practice, where we repeatedly question our technique or search for signs of insight. We want our teachers to give us a roadmap, a gold star, and maybe a little pep talk to keep us going.
But Veluriya Sayadaw was the ultimate antidote to that "approval-seeking" mind. He was a member of the Burmese Sangha who perfected the art of being a quiet counter-example. If your goal was to hear an ornate philosophical lecture, he would have surely disappointed you. He refrained from verbal analysis and inspirational talks, manifesting only his own presence. For those practitioners possessed of the resilience to remain, his refusal to speak resulted in a deeper level of insight than any oral teaching could provide.
The "Awkward Silence" that Saves You
The initial reaction of students meeting his silence was likely one of profound unease. Our habit is to rely on external "guidance," yet with Veluriya, the instruction acted as a direct reflection. When an instructor refuses to validate your progress or offer motivational speech, the mind is suddenly stripped of its usual escapes. All that restlessness, that "I’m bored" voice, and those nagging doubts? They are left with no choice but to be witnessed directly.
This sounds difficult, and it likely was, yet that was the intended goal. His goal was for people to abandon their reliance on the teacher and begin observing their own minds.
One can compare it to the second the support is taken away while learning to ride a bike; it’s terrifying for a second, but that’s the only way you actually learn to balance.
Practice as a Lifestyle, Not a Performance
As a significant teacher in the Mahāsi tradition, he placed immense value on the persistence of mindfulness.
For him, meditation wasn't a performance you did for an hour on a cushion. It consisted of:
• The mindful steps taken during daily chores.
• The technical noting applied to eating a meal.
• The equanimity maintained when faced with a minor irritation.
His life was characterized by an exceptional level of stability and focus. There were no "spiritual trials" or decorative extras in his practice. He possessed a deep faith that persistent, daily attention to the "now" would ultimately allow the truth to be seen clearly. He didn't need to embellish the Dhamma because he knew it was already there—it is only our own mental noise that prevents us from witnessing it.
The Alchemy of Resistance: Staying with the Fire
I click here find his way of dealing with suffering to be incredibly honest and direct. Today, we are surrounded by techniques designed to "soften" the experience of difficulty. Veluriya, on the other hand, did not seek to make things "easier" for the student. Whether facing somatic pain, extreme tedium, or mental agitation, his primary advice was simply to... allow it to be.
By denying you a "tactic" for avoiding pain, he compelled you to remain present until you perceived a vital truth: the absence of solidity. The ache you perceived as a solid obstacle is, in reality, a flow of changing sensations. The boredom is nothing more than a transient state of mind. One discovers this only by staying in the difficult states until they are no longer viewed as an "enemy."
Finding Clarity when the Commentary Stops
There are no books or hours of recorded teachings under his name. His impact is far more understated. It is seen in the unshakeable character of those who trained with him—people who learned that insight doesn't depend on your "mood" It is the fruit of simply showing up.
He was proof that the Dhamma does not need to be "sold" to the public. Understanding does not depend on the repetition of words. There are times when a teacher's greatest gift is their own silence. It’s a reminder that when we stop adding our own "commentary" to every moment, we may at last start to witness the world as it truly exists.