As I reflect tonight on the example of Bhante Gavesi, and his remarkable refusal to present himself as anything extraordinary. One finds it curious that people generally visit such a master armed with numerous theories and rigid expectations from their reading —looking for an intricate chart or a profound theological system— but he just doesn't give it to them. He appears entirely unconcerned with becoming a mere instructor of doctrines. Instead, those who meet him often carry away a more silent understanding. Perhaps it is a newfound trust in their own first-hand observation.
His sense of unshakeable poise is almost challenging to witness for those accustomed to the frantic pace of modern life. I've noticed he doesn't try to impress anyone. He just keeps coming back to the most basic instructions: perceive the current reality, just as it manifests. In an environment where people crave conversations about meditative "phases" or seeking extraordinary states to share with others, his way of teaching proves to be... startlingly simple. He offers no guarantee of a spectacular or sudden change. It is just the idea that clarity can be achieved from actually paying attention, honestly and for a long time.
I think about the people who have practiced with him for years. They don't really talk about sudden breakthroughs. It is more of a rhythmic, step-by-step evolution. Prolonged durations spent in the simple act of noting.
Rising, falling. Walking. Not avoiding the pain when it shows up, and not chasing the pleasure when it finally does. It requires a significant amount of khanti (patience). Eventually, I suppose, the mind just stops looking for something "extra" and resides in the reality of things—the truth of anicca. It’s not the kind of progress that makes a lot of noise, but it manifests in the serene conduct of the practitioners.
He embodies the core principles of the Mahāsi tradition, which stresses the absolute necessity of unbroken awareness. He consistently points out that realization is not the result of accidental inspiration. It is born from the discipline of the path. Many hours, days, and years spent in meticulous mindfulness. He has lived this truth himself. He abstained from pursuing status or creating a large-scale institution. He opted for the unadorned way—extended periods of silence and a focus on the work itself. To be truthful, I find that level of dedication somewhat intimidating. This is read more not based on academic degrees, but on the silent poise of someone who has achieved lucidity.
One thing that sticks with me is how he warns people about getting attached to the "good" experiences. You know, the visions, the rapture, the deep calm. His advice is to acknowledge them and continue, seeing their impermanent nature. It appears he is attempting to protect us from those delicate obstacles where we treat the path as if it were just another worldly success.
This is quite a demanding proposition, wouldn't you say? To ask myself if I am truly prepared to return to the fundamentals and persevere there until wisdom is allowed to blossom. He is not interested in being worshipped from afar. He is merely proposing that we verify the method for ourselves. Sit down. Watch. Maintain the practice. It is a silent path, where elaborate explanations are unnecessary compared to steady effort.