As I reflect tonight on the example of Bhante Gavesi, and his remarkable refusal to present himself as anything extraordinary. It’s funny, because people usually show up to see someone like him armed with numerous theories and rigid expectations from their reading —desiring a structured plan or an elaborate intellectual methodology— but he simply refrains from fulfilling those desires. He has never shown any inclination toward being a teacher of abstract concepts. Instead, people seem to walk away with something much quieter. I would call it a burgeoning faith in their actual, lived experience.
His sense of unshakeable poise is almost challenging to witness if your mind is tuned to the perpetual hurry of the era. I've noticed he doesn't try to impress anyone. He unfailingly redirects focus to the core instructions: maintain awareness of phenomena in the immediate present. In a world where everyone wants to talk about "stages" of meditation or pursuing mystical experiences for the sake of recognition, his perspective is quite... liberating in its directness. He offers no guarantee of a spectacular or sudden change. It’s just the suggestion that clarity might come from actually paying attention, honestly and for a long time.
I contemplate the journey of those who have trained under him for a decade. They do not typically describe their progress in terms of sudden flashes of insight. It is characterized by a slow and steady transformation. Months and years of disciplined labeling of phenomena.
Noting the phồng, xẹp, and the steps of walking. Refraining from shunning physical discomfort when it arises, and not grasping at agreeable feelings when they are present. It’s a lot of patient endurance. Gradually, the internal dialogue stops seeking extraordinary outcomes and anchors itself in the raw nature of existence—impermanence. This is not a form of advancement that seeks attention, nonetheless, it is reflected in the steady presence of the yogis.
He’s so rooted in that Mahāsi tradition, that relentless emphasis on continuity. He persistently teaches that paññā is not a product of spontaneous flashes. It is the fruit of dedicated labor. Hours, days, years of just being precise with awareness. He has lived this truth himself. He abstained from pursuing status or creating a large-scale institution. He just chose the simple path—long retreats, staying close to the reality of the practice itself. I find that kind of commitment a bit daunting, to be honest. It is not a matter of titles, but the serene assurance of an individual who has found clarity.
I am particularly struck by his advice to avoid clinging to "pleasant" meditative states. For instance, the visions, the ecstatic feelings, or click here the deep state of calm. He instructs to simply note them and proceed, witnessing their cessation. It’s like he’s trying to keep us from falling into those subtle traps where the Dhamma is mistaken for a form of personal accomplishment.
It presents a significant internal challenge, does it not? To ask myself if I am truly prepared to return to the fundamentals and abide in that simplicity until anything of value develops. He is not seeking far-off admirers or followers. He is merely proposing that we verify the method for ourselves. Take a seat. Observe. Persevere. The way is quiet, forgoing grand rhetoric in favor of simple, honest persistence.