Venerable Dhammajīva Thero comes to mind when everything around practice feels trendy and loud and I’m just trying to remember why I started at all. The exact onset of my fatigue regarding modern trends remains unclear, but tonight it has become remarkably palpable. Maybe it’s the way everything online looks slightly overproduced now, even silence somehow packaged and optimized. I am positioned on the floor, leaning against the wall with my mat slightly misaligned, and there is absolutely nothing about this scene that feels suitable for public sharing. Which is probably why Dhammajīva Thero drifts into my thoughts.
Stillness in the Heart of the Night
It is nearly 2 a.m., and the temperature has dropped noticeably. There’s a faint smell of rain that never quite arrived. My lower limbs alternate between numbness and tingling, as if they are undecided on their state. I keep fidgeting with my hand placement, trying to find stillness but failing to maintain it. My internal dialogue isn't aggressive; it’s just a persistent, quiet chatter in the distance.
The thought of Dhammajīva Thero does not evoke "newness," but rather a relentless persistence. I envision a man remaining steadfast while the world fluctuates around him. It isn't a defensive quietude, it is the silence of being truly anchored in the earth. Such an example carries immense weight after one has seen the spiritual marketplace recycle the same ideas. This quality of permanence feels especially significant when you have observed the same ancient principles renamed and sold as "innovations" for years.
Practice without the Marketing
Earlier today, I encountered an advertisement for a “revolutionary approach” to mindfulness, which was essentially the same principles in a modern font. It left me feeling not angry, but simply tired of the constant rebranding. As I sit here, that fatigue lingers, and I see Dhammajīva Thero as the ultimate example of not caring if the world finds you relevant or not. Meditation isn't a software that needs an upgrade, it is a discipline that needs to be practiced.
I find my breath is shallow and uneven, noticing it only to have it slip away again into the background. Sweat gathers slightly at the base of my neck. I wipe it without thinking. These mundane physical experiences feel far more authentic than any abstract concept of enlightenment. Tradition matters because it forces the practice into the muscles and the breath, keeping it from becoming a mere cloud of ideas that requires no work.
The Fragile Balance of Presence
There’s comfort in knowing someone chose not to bend with website every wave. Not because waves are bad, but because depth doesn’t come from constant motion. Dhammajīva Thero represents that slow, deliberate depth, the kind that only becomes visible when you cease your own constant movement. It is a challenging stance to take when our entire world is built on the pursuit of the new and the fast.
I catch myself looking for a "result" or some proof of progress, then I see the ego's need for that proof. Suddenly, there is a short window of time where I don't require an explanation. It doesn’t last long, but it’s there. Tradition holds space for that moment without trying to explain it away or turn it into a product.
The fan is silent tonight, and the room is quiet enough for me to hear the vibration of my own breath. The mind attempts to categorize or interpret the sensation; I allow the thoughts to occur, but I refuse to follow them. This equilibrium feels delicate yet authentic, unpolished and unoptimized.
Rejecting trends does not mean becoming stagnant; it means being meticulous about what truly matters. Dhammajīva Thero represents that careful choice, showing no hurry to modernize the path or fear of appearing outdated. He simply trusts in the longevity of the path.
I’m still restless. Still uncertain. Still tempted by shinier narratives. However, thinking of a teacher so grounded in tradition allows me to stop trying to "fix" the practice. I don't need a new angle; I just need to continue showing up, even when the experience is dull and unimpressive.
The night moves on, my legs move, and my mind drifts off and comes back a dozen times. Nothing extraordinary occurs; yet, in this incredibly ordinary stretch of time, that quiet steadiness feels entirely sufficient.