My thoughts drift toward Dhammajīva Thero when the world of mindfulness feels cluttered with fads, reminding me to return to the fundamental reason I first stepped onto the path. I don’t know exactly when I started getting tired of trends, but tonight it feels very clear. It might be the way digital silence now feels like a packaged commodity, optimized for a specific aesthetic rather than true stillness. I’m sitting on the floor, back against the wall, mat slightly crooked, and nothing about this feels shareable. Which is probably why Dhammajīva Thero drifts into my thoughts.
Stillness in the Heart of the Night
The hour approaches 2 a.m., and the air has grown significantly cooler. 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 adjusting my hands, then stopping myself, then adjusting again anyway. The mind isn't out of control, it is merely busy with a low hum of thoughts that feel like distant background noise.
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. This is not a rigid or stubborn immobility, but rather a deeply rooted presence. Such an example carries immense weight after one has seen the spiritual marketplace recycle the same ideas. That unmoving nature feels more valuable than ever when you notice how often the same basic truths are given a new font and a new price tag.
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. As I sit here, that fatigue lingers, and I see Dhammajīva Thero here as the ultimate example of not caring if the world finds you relevant or not. 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. A small amount of perspiration has formed at the base of my neck, which I wipe away habitually. These small physical details feel more real than any abstract idea right now. 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.
Trusting the Process over the Product
It is reassuring to know that some teachers refuse to be swept away by every new trend in the mindfulness industry. 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. That’s hard in a world where everything rewards speed and novelty.
I find myself seeking reassurance—a sign that I am on the right path; then I witness that desire. In a flash, the question itself feels unnecessary, and the need for an answer disappears. It is a temporary silence, but tradition respects it enough not to try and sell it back to me as a "breakthrough."
No fan is running this evening; the silence is so total that the sound of my respiration fills my internal space. The mind attempts to categorize or interpret the sensation; I allow the thoughts to occur, but I refuse to follow them. That balance feels fragile, but real. Not dramatic. Not optimized.
Being unmoved by trends doesn’t mean being frozen. It means choosing carefully what actually matters. Dhammajīva Thero feels aligned with that kind of choice. No rush to modernize. No fear of being outdated. There is only a deep trust that these instructions have endured for a reason.
I am still restless and full of uncertainty, still attracted to more glamorous 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 hours pass, my body adjusts its position, and my mind fluctuates between presence and distraction. Nothing extraordinary occurs; yet, in this incredibly ordinary stretch of time, that quiet steadiness feels entirely sufficient.