I have been trying to pinpoint when I first became aware of the name Jatila Sayadaw, but my memory is proving elusive. It wasn't as if there was a definitive event or a formal announcement. It is akin to realizing a tree in your garden has become unexpectedly large, without having any clear recollection of the actual growing process? It has just become a fixture. His name was just there, familiar in a way I never really questioned.
I’m sitting here now, early— not at the crack of dawn, but in that strange, muted interval when the light hasn't quite made up its mind yet. The steady, repetitive sound of sweeping drifts in from the street. It highlights my own lack of motion as I sit here, partially awake, pondering a member of the Sangha I never personally encountered, at least not formally. Merely fragmented memories. General impressions.
In discussions of his life, the word "revered" is used quite often. It is a word that possesses a certain weight. However, when used in reference to Jatila Sayadaw, it lacks any sense of boisterousness or formality. It sounds more like... carefulness. It is as though people choose their vocabulary more carefully when discussing him. There is a feeling of great restraint in his legacy. I find myself reflecting on this quality—the quality of restraint. Such a characteristic seems quite foreign in the modern world, does it not? Everything else is about reaction, speed, being seen. He seems to belong to a completely different rhythm. A state where time is not viewed as something to be "hacked" or maximized. You just inhabit it. That concept is elegant in writing, though I suspect the reality is far more demanding.
I have a clear image of him in my thoughts, even though I may have fabricated it from pieces of past stories and memories. In this image, he is walking—simply moving along a monastery trail with downcast eyes and balanced steps. It does not appear to be an act. He isn't performing for others, even if there were onlookers nearby. I am likely romanticizing the scene, but that is how he remains in my thoughts.
It’s funny, no one really tells "personality" stories about him. There are no witty sayings or anecdotes that act as keepsakes. The conversation invariably centers on his self-control and his consistency. As if his individual self... withdrew to provide a space for the tradition to manifest. I wonder about that sometimes. Whether letting the "self" vanish in such a way is a form of freedom or a form of confinement. I am unsure; I may not even be asking the most relevant question.
The light is changing now and becoming brighter. I've been reviewing this text and I nearly chose to delete it. The writing appears a little chaotic, maybe even somewhat without consequence. But maybe that’s more info the point. Thinking about him highlights how much noise I typically add to the world. How much I feel the need to fill up the silence with something "useful." He seems to be the opposite of that. His quietude wasn't for its own sake; he just appeared to have no need for anything extra.
I'll end it there. This writing is not a biography in any formal sense. It is just me noting how some names stay with you even without effort. They just stay. Steady.