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. I am sat on the floor, my back against the wall and my meditation mat out of place, in a moment that is entirely unglamorous and unmarketable. Which is probably why Dhammajīva Thero drifts into my thoughts.
The Unseen Work of Constant Awareness
It is nearly 2 a.m., and the temperature has dropped noticeably. There is a lingering scent of rain that failed to fall. My legs feel partially insensate, caught in a state of physical indecision between comfort and pain. I keep adjusting my hands, then stopping myself, then adjusting again anyway. 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. His stillness is not forced; it is organic and grounded like an ancient tree. It is a stability that doesn’t feel the need to respond to every passing fad. 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.
Anchoring the Mind in the Ancient Framework
Earlier today, I encountered an advertisement for a “revolutionary approach” to mindfulness, which was essentially the same principles in a modern font. 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 practice does not require a seasonal update; it simply requires the act of doing.
My respiration is irregular; I perceive it, lose that awareness, and then regain it once more. I feel a bead of sweat at my hairline and wipe it away as an automatic gesture. Right now, these tiny physical realities carry more weight than any complex spiritual philosophy. That’s probably why tradition matters. It keeps things anchored in the body, in lived repetition, not concepts floating around detached from effort.
Unmoved and Unfazed by the Modern
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. 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 find myself yearning for validation or some external signal that my practice is correct; then I become aware of that craving. Then there’s a brief moment where I don’t need an answer. 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 is eager to analyze the breath or judge the sit; I let it chatter in the background without following the narrative. It is a precarious state of being, but it feels honest and unmanipulated.
Standing firm against trends isn't the same as being stuck, it is about having the clarity to choose substance over flash. 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. He simply trusts in the longevity of the path.
Restlessness and doubt remain, and I still feel the pull of more exciting spiritual stories. 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 "hack," I just need the sincerity to stay on the cushion even when nothing interesting is happening.
The hours pass, my body adjusts its position, and my mind fluctuates between presence and distraction. Nothing special happens. And somehow, in this very ordinary stretch more info of time, that steadiness feels enough.