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. I am unsure when I first began to feel weary of spiritual fads, but the feeling is undeniable tonight. It might be the way digital silence now feels like a packaged commodity, optimized for a specific aesthetic rather than true stillness. 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. This is likely why the memory of Dhammajīva Thero begins to inhabit my mind.
The 2 A.M. Reality: Silence vs. Noise
The hour approaches 2 a.m., and the air has grown significantly cooler. The air carries a subtle hint of moisture from a storm that passed us by. There is a strange sensation in my legs, a mix of numbness and vitality that refuses to settle. I am constantly moving my hands, catching myself, and then adjusting them again out of habit. 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 see him as a figure of absolute stillness while the rest of the world is in constant motion. It isn't a defensive quietude, it is the silence of being truly anchored in the earth. The kind that doesn’t react every time something new flashes by. 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
Earlier today I read something about a “new approach” to mindfulness. Same concepts, different fonts. I felt this quiet resistance in my chest, not angry, just tired. website 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. Practice doesn’t need to be updated every season. It just needs to be done.
My breathing’s uneven. I notice it, then forget, then notice again. I subconsciously dry the sweat at the back of my neck as I sit. These small physical details feel more real than any abstract idea right now. This is likely why the lineage is so vital; it anchors the mind in the body and in the honesty of repetition, preventing it from becoming a detached intellectual exercise.
Steady Rain in a World of Flash Floods
I find solace in the idea of someone who refuses to be moved by every passing fad. This isn't because the waves are inherently negative, but because true depth is not found in perpetual motion. To me, he feels like the kind of depth that only reveals itself once you have completely stopped chasing the next thing. It is a challenging stance to take when our entire world is built on the pursuit of the new and the fast.
I find myself seeking reassurance—a sign that I am on the right path; then I witness that desire. For a brief instant, the need for an answer evaporates. The moment is fleeting, but it is real; tradition provides the container for that silence without trying to commodify it.
The air is still without the fan, making the sound of my breathing seem strangely loud and intimate. The mind is eager to analyze the breath or judge the sit; I let it chatter in the background without following the narrative. That balance is fragile, but it is genuine; it isn't "packaged" or "maximized" for anyone else's benefit.
Standing firm against trends 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. Just trust that the path has survived this long for a reason.
I am still restless and full of uncertainty, still attracted to more glamorous narratives. But reflecting on a life so anchored in tradition makes me realize I don't need to innovate my own path. I don't need a new angle; I just need to continue showing up, even when the experience is dull and unimpressive.
The night continues; I shift my legs once more while the mind wanders, returns, and wanders again. Nothing extraordinary occurs; yet, in this incredibly ordinary stretch of time, that quiet steadiness feels entirely sufficient.