I find myself contemplating the figure of Dhammajīva Thero whenever the culture surrounding meditation becomes loud and overproduced, leaving me to search for the simple 'why' of my practice. 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. Currently, I am sitting on the ground, back to the wall, with my equipment in disarray; nothing here is performative or "shareable" in the modern sense. This absence of "lifestyle" is precisely why the image of Dhammajīva Thero resonates with me now.
The 2 A.M. Reality: Silence vs. Noise
The hour approaches 2 a.m., and the air has grown significantly cooler. There’s a faint smell of rain that never quite arrived. My legs feel partially insensate, caught in a state of physical indecision between comfort and pain. I keep fidgeting with my hand placement, trying to find stillness but failing to maintain it. The mind’s not wild. Just chatty. Background noise more than anything.
The thought of Dhammajīva Thero does not evoke "newness," but rather a relentless persistence. He represents the act of standing firm amidst the shifting sands of modern spiritual trends. This is not a rigid or stubborn immobility, but rather a deeply rooted presence. This is a type of presence that remains unaffected by the rapid-fire changes of the digital age. This quality of permanence feels especially significant when you have observed the same ancient principles renamed and sold as "innovations" for years.
The Refusal to Chase Relevance
I saw some content today about a "fresh perspective" on awareness, but it was just the same old message with better graphic design. There was a subtle pushback in my heart, a feeling of being worn out by the need for novelty. Now, in the stillness, that feeling remains; to me, Dhammajīva Thero is the embodiment of not needing to be "current." The Dhamma doesn't need to be redesigned for every new generation; it just needs to be lived.
I find my breath is shallow and uneven, noticing it only to have it slip away again into the background. I feel a bead of sweat at my hairline and wipe it away as an automatic gesture. 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.
Steady Rain in a World of Flash Floods
There is a profound comfort in knowing that some individuals choose not to sway with every cultural tide. It is a recognition that depth is the result of stillness, not constant change. Dhammajīva Thero feels like depth. The slow kind. The kind you don’t notice until you stop moving so much. That’s hard in a world where everything rewards speed and novelty.
I catch myself looking for a "result" or some proof of progress, then I see the ego's need for that proof. For a brief instant, the need for an answer evaporates. 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’s off tonight. It’s quiet enough that I can hear my own breath echo slightly in my chest. The mind attempts to categorize or interpret the sensation; I allow the thoughts to occur, but I refuse to follow them. It is a precarious state of being, but it feels honest and unmanipulated.
Standing firm against trends here isn't the same as being stuck, it is about having the clarity to choose substance over flash. He personifies that stance, showing no anxiety about being "behind the times" or needing to reinvent the wheel. He simply trusts in the longevity of the path.
I am still distracted and plagued by doubt, still feeling the draw of "enlightenment" stories that sound more exciting than this. But sitting here, thinking of someone rooted so firmly in tradition, I feel less pressure to reinvent anything. I don't need a "hack," I just need the sincerity to stay on the cushion even when nothing interesting is happening.
The night keeps going. My legs shift again. The mind drifts, returns, drifts. No cinematic insights arrive, and yet, in this very plain and unrecorded moment, the act of staying feels like everything.