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. 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 is likely why the memory of Dhammajīva Thero begins to inhabit my mind.
The Unseen Work of Constant Awareness
It is nearly 2 a.m., and the temperature has dropped noticeably. I can detect the ghost of a rainstorm that never materialized. 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. Of someone standing still while everything else keeps shifting around him. Not stubborn stillness. More like rooted. The kind that doesn’t react every time something new flashes by. That steadiness hits different when you’ve been around long enough to see the same ideas rebranded over and over.
The Refusal to Chase Relevance
I came across a post today regarding a "new" mindfulness technique that was nothing more than old wine in new bottles. I felt a quiet, weary resistance in my chest, not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. Now, in the stillness, that feeling remains; to me, Dhammajīva Thero is the embodiment of not needing to be "current." The practice does not require a seasonal update; it simply requires the act of doing.
I find my breath is shallow and uneven, noticing it only to have it slip away again into the background. I subconsciously dry the sweat at the back of my neck as I sit. At this moment, these tangible physical sensations are more "real" than any high-minded theory. 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.
Unmoved and Unfazed by the Modern
I find solace in the idea of someone who refuses to be moved by every passing fad. Not because waves are bad, but because depth doesn’t come from constant motion. To me, he feels like the kind of depth that only reveals itself once you have completely stopped chasing the next thing. Choosing that path is a radical act in a culture that treats speed as a virtue.
I catch myself wanting reassurance. Some sign I’m doing this right. Then I notice that wanting. 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 is silent tonight, and the room is quiet enough for me to ven dhammajiva thero hear the vibration of my own breath. My mind wants to interpret the sound, to give it a name or a meaning; I let the internal dialogue run its course without engaging. This equilibrium feels delicate yet authentic, unpolished and unoptimized.
To be unmoved by the new is not to be frozen in time, but to be deliberate in one's focus. His example aligns with that kind of integrity, where there is no rush to change and no fear of being left behind by the world. 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 sitting here, contemplating someone so firmly rooted in lineage, I feel the pressure to reinvent the Dhamma dissipate. 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 breakthroughs happen, and yet, in this very mundane interval, that sense of persistence feels like enough.