Choosing Roots, Not Reach: Reflections on Venerable Dhammajīva Thero

I find myself contemplating the figure of Dhammajīva Thero whenever the culture surrounding meditation becomes loud and overproduced, leaving me to search for the simple 'why' of my practice. I don’t know exactly when I started getting tired of trends, but tonight it feels very clear. Maybe it is because every spiritual message online feels like a production, where even the concept of quietude is marketed as a performance. 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. 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. There’s a faint smell of rain that never quite arrived. 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. 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.

Practice without the Marketing
Earlier today, I encountered an advertisement for a “revolutionary approach” to mindfulness, which was essentially the same principles in a modern font. It left me feeling not angry, but simply tired of the constant rebranding. As I sit here, that fatigue lingers, and I more info see Dhammajīva Thero 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.
My breathing’s uneven. I notice it, then forget, then notice again. Sweat gathers slightly at the base of my neck. I wipe it without thinking. 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. Dhammajīva Thero feels like depth. The slow kind. The kind you don’t notice until you stop moving so much. Such a choice is difficult in a society that exclusively rewards speed and novelty.
I find myself seeking reassurance—a sign that I am on the right path; then I witness that desire. Suddenly, there is a short window of time where I don't require an explanation. It is a temporary silence, but tradition respects it enough not to try and sell it back to me as a "breakthrough."

The air is still without the fan, making the sound of my breathing seem strangely loud and intimate. The mind wants to comment on it, label it, maybe analyze it. I let it talk. I don’t follow. That balance is fragile, but it is genuine; it isn't "packaged" or "maximized" for anyone else's benefit.
Rejecting trends does not mean becoming stagnant; it means being meticulous about what truly matters. Dhammajīva Thero feels aligned with that kind of choice. No rush to modernize. No fear of being outdated. He simply trusts in the longevity of the path.

I’m still restless. Still uncertain. Still tempted by shinier narratives. But sitting here, thinking of someone rooted so firmly in tradition, I feel less pressure to reinvent anything. No new perspective is required; I only need to persist, even when it feels boring and looks like nothing special.
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.