As I reflect tonight on the example of Bhante Gavesi, and his remarkable refusal to present himself as anything extraordinary. One finds it curious that people generally visit such a master with all these theories and expectations they’ve gathered from books —desiring a structured plan or an elaborate intellectual methodology— yet he offers no such intellectual satisfaction. The role of a theoretical lecturer seems to hold no appeal for him. On the contrary, practitioners typically leave with a far more understated gift. It is a sense of confidence in their personal, immediate perception.
There’s this steadiness to him that’s almost uncomfortable if you’re used to the rush of everything else. I perceive that he is entirely devoid of the need to seek approval. He unfailingly redirects focus to the core instructions: be aware of the present moment, exactly as it unfolds. In a world where everyone wants to talk about "stages" of meditation or some kind of peak experience to post about, his perspective is quite... liberating in its directness. It is not presented as a vow of radical, instant metamorphosis. He simply suggests that lucidity is the result through sincere and sustained attention over a long duration.
I think about the people who have practiced with him for years. They seldom mention experiencing instant enlightenments. It is characterized by a slow and steady transformation. Extensive periods dedicated solely to mental noting.
Noting the phồng, xẹp, and the steps of walking. Not avoiding the pain when it shows up, and refusing to cling to pleasurable experiences when they emerge. It requires a significant amount of khanti (patience). Gradually, the internal dialogue stops seeking extraordinary outcomes and settles into the way things actually are—the impermanence of it all. Such growth does not announce itself with fanfare, yet it is evident in the quiet poise of those who have practiced.
He’s so rooted in that Mahāsi tradition, with its unwavering focus on the persistence of sati. He’s always reminding us that insight doesn't come from a random flash of inspiration. It is born from the discipline of the path. Hours, days, years of just being precise with awareness. He has lived this truth himself. He didn't go out looking for recognition or trying to build some massive institution. He merely followed the modest road—intensive retreats and a close adherence to actual practice. To be truthful, I find that level of dedication somewhat intimidating. This is not based on academic degrees, but on the silent poise of someone who has achieved lucidity.
A key point that resonates with me is his warning regarding attachment to "positive" phenomena. Namely, the mental images, the pīti (rapture), or the profound tranquility. 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 question my own readiness to re-engage with the core principles and just stay there long enough for more info anything to grow. He’s not asking anyone to admire him from a distance. He is merely proposing that we verify the method for ourselves. Sit down. Watch. Maintain the practice. It is a silent path, where elaborate explanations are unnecessary compared to steady effort.