Introduction

To tell you honestly, some interesting things happened to me.

Venerable Gnanaloka said, looking up from the pages.

I was getting very strong emotions on occasions, you know. I was seeing… like… seeing myself on very key occasions, where I am… meeting Bhante.

He paused, searching for words.

Which I don’t recall like that.

For over two decades, Venerable Gnanaloka has practiced not holding onto memories. His teacher, Venerable Ñāṇavimala—whom he addressed as “Venerable Sir,” later “Bhante”—trained him in the art of living in the present. Memories, left unattended, don’t arise—even memories of his own life.

But when he read the third draft of the Reflections in this book—stories of his teacher woven from multiple sources: his own notes from 25 years earlier, existing literature, his public talks, and our conversations with him—something broke through. Not just images, but presence. “Very key occasions” returning with such clarity that he was seeing them again.

We asked him what he meant. What was it about these stories?

I don’t recall him in a sentimental way,

he said carefully.

But if I put a focus on that…

The precise word remained unuttered, but the implication was clear.

It touches a very core part of my heart.

It was in that moment we understood: This book needed to exist.

For seven years, a young man named Shanaka kept notebooks filled with his teacher’s words. He began in 1994, during his first solo retreat, and continued until 2001, even after his own ordination as Venerable Bambalapitiye Gnanaloka (Ñāṇāloka) Thero.

The notes trace a complete training: how to live ethically in daily life, face desire and attachment honestly, cultivate qualities like compassion and equanimity, and develop the understanding needed for liberation. From basic practice to advanced insight, they preserve a rare, complete transmission of the Buddha’s path.

The teacher was Venerable Ñāṇavimala Mahāthera. The student, Shanaka, had seen him before—but it was a chance encounter on a roadside in 1989 that changed everything.

Venerable Ñāṇavimala had come a long way to be standing on that roadside. Born Friedrich Möller in Germany in 1911, his path to Sri Lanka had been unlikely—through war, imprisonment, and discovering a Buddhist text in an internment camp. After ordaining in 1955, he spent a decade at Polgasduwa Island Hermitage— a tiny sanctuary nestled within a lagoon, lush with tropical trees and swept by the cooling breeze —before becoming a cārikā bhikkhu, walking barefoot across Sri Lanka for twenty-five years, traversing the island three times over. He carried only what the Vinaya permitted: his alms bowl, three robes, and the few basic allowables needed for survival—including a piece of soap wrapped in jackfruit leaves. It was said that there was no village in Sri Lanka his feet hadn’t touched.

He was practicing a rare echo of the Buddha’s original instruction—a tradition nearly lost to time. “Wander forth for the welfare of the multitude,” the Buddha had told his first awakened disciples. This became known as cārikā—the practice of wandering on foot without settling, forming no attachments to place or possession. He taught that the wise cling to nothing, like a droplet on a lotus leaf—touching but never sticking. The monk moves through the world the same way—being in the world while clinging to nothing.

The sight of a monk like this—his presence, his simplicity—provided a blessing to all who encountered him.

Eventually, the body that had sustained this journey grew frail, and the walking reached its natural conclusion in 1991. He told the young disciple that the cārikā had been his service to others, performed as far as his body allowed.

Those who encountered him often found their lives altered. Venerable Katukurunde Ñāṇananda, whose influential writings on early Buddhism would be studied worldwide, described him as the “Mahākassapa of this age”—the Buddha’s chief disciple, an exemplary model of the ascetic practice—telling Bhikkhu Bodhi:

If you want to get a sermon from Mahākassapa, go see Venerable Ñāṇavimala.

Bhikkhu Bodhi, translator of major Buddhist texts, would note that “he would adjust his Dhamma talk to meet the other person in precisely the way that best fit the other person’s needs”, crediting him for shaping his early understanding on meditation. He also noted that while Ven. Ñāṇavimala exemplified the ascetic ideal, he cautioned it was not the only model the Buddha praised.

The late Ven. Ñāṇadīpa, revered for his asceticism, recalled that while their approaches differed, he was still moved: “Years after he has gone, I can at times feel greatly inspired by thinking of him.” He noted the talks he heard from Ven. Ñāṇavimala typically emphasized “the preliminary parts of the practice.”

Few received the depth of teaching that Ajahn Brahmavaṁso experienced. Now one of the most recognized Buddhist teachers in the West, he describes that rare full discourse as “the best Dhamma talk that I have ever had the good karma (accumulated merit) to listen to!”, recalling how Ven. Ñāṇavimala “wove quotes from the Suttas together with explanations from his own experience into such symphony of Dhamma.”

Venerable K. Pemasiri, a respected meditation teacher in Sri Lanka, observed: “There was nothing put on. There was no conceit. One could honestly say that this person was definitely on the way to Nibbāna (full enlightenment). There was clearly no doubt about it!”

Despite his influence on a generation of Buddhist teachers, Ven. Ñāṇavimala himself remained almost invisible. He gave no public discourses, wrote no books, built no institutions. When he passed in 2005, most of the Buddhist world—even in Sri Lanka, where he’d walked for decades—barely knew his name.

None of that mattered to him anyway.

Ven. Gnanaloka describes him as embodying a rare combination: the deep Sutta understanding of a Pāli scholar united with the relentless striving of a hardened forest ascetic. His theoretical foundation came from studying under Venerable Ñāṇatiloka and Venerable Ñāṇamoli, two of the first Western monks to master Pāli and translate key Buddhist texts. This lineage of going directly to the Suttas as primary authority shaped everything about how he taught.

Though fluent in Pāli, the language of Buddhist scriptures, his knowledge of the local language, Sinhala, remained deliberately limited—perhaps to stay anchored in the teachings rather than conversation—and if spoken it was with a heavy German accent. This was so much so that even local people occasionally couldn’t understand him. Yet once, addressing visiting monks from Wathuravila, he spoke with unexpected clarity:

Lankawe Sinhala handuruwata saddawa thiyanawa, habai, shakthiya madiy

—Sri Lankan monks have faith, but not enough energy.

Ven. Gnanaloka recalls asking him how he accessed words he had never heard him speak, he explained: mindfulness opens access to knowledge stored across lifetimes.

His simple utterance to those monks was a call to match faith with effort.

Visitors would watch him meticulously sweeping around his kuṭi. His door was locked most of the time. Most dared not approach him.

Yet those who did approach—arriving with frantic eagerness, carrying offerings—experienced something unexpected.

In his presence, something would shift. Ven. Gnanaloka describes them as leaving in a bewildered calm.

It wasn’t just what Ven. Ñāṇavimala said. It was that he was completely present. Each small action—receiving an item, pouring water, adjusting his robe—done with total attention.

Somehow, that presence became contagious.

Yet it also demanded something. There was an intensity to his focus—a sharpness that could unsettle those who weren’t grounded. Being near him required maintaining one’s own clarity, or the encounter could prove difficult to bear.

Ven. Ñāṇavimala’s final recorded teachings were captured in 2001. The world has transformed since then—smartphones, social media, infinite distraction at our fingertips. One might think his teachings about embracing discomfort, seeking simplicity, doing one thing at a time with full attention would feel impossibly distant now.

But perhaps that’s exactly why they matter more than ever.

Ven. Gnanaloka remembers overhearing when fellow monks would enthusiastically speak about the new technology of internet, Venerable Ñāṇavimala would reply simply: “This is also in the sensual world.”

In 1996, Shanaka had recorded something in his notebooks—a warning that reads differently now than it did then:

It is sad to say that the essence of the practice is almost lost everywhere. People are getting more used to living a comfortable life.

In 1996. Before Google. Before Facebook. Before anyone carried the internet in their pocket. He was already seeing what the world was drowning in.

Today, Americans check their phones 144 times a day—once every eight minutes. Modern society has more comforts, more distractions, more ways to avoid boredom than ever before. A study conducted in France revealed that adults who use social media heavily have 3 times the risk of depression and over 3 times the risk of anxiety compared to light users, with risks rising over time as technology use intensifies.

In an age of constant stimulation, his life poses a question modern seekers are perhaps too afraid to ask: Are modern comforts truly leading to real happiness? How can we find stillness in an age of infinite scroll?

Venerable Ñāṇavimala’s profound turning away was not merely a personal choice, but a rare and authentic expression of his insight into the Buddha’s teachings—the path to escape suffering, not through comforts, but through wisdom and effort.

And beneath that question lies another one: How do you find the authentic Buddha’s voice through all this noise?

In his course on Early Buddhism, reflecting upon the instance when Mahāpajāpatī Gotamī - the Buddha’s maternal aunt, foster mother, and the first ordained nun - came to the Buddha to seek advice, Bhikkhu Sujato, founder of SuttaCentral and a scholar of early Buddhist texts says:

While Mahāpajāpatī (Gotamī) wants to go on retreat, do intensive meditation, Buddha is not exactly giving her specific meditation instructions. He is not saying do Ānāpānasati…do this meditation, or that meditation

He identified something telling about the way Buddhism is taught today.

In modern Buddhism, when people talk about meditation, they often focus on details of meditation techniques. In the Suttas we don’t find nearly so much detail about techniques, but a lot more about how you are living, what is the attitude in your mind, the focus and direction your mind is taking. These are the things that really matter.

When one observes the notes taken by Ven. Gnanaloka in his teacher’s presence, it becomes clear that this is the exact spirit that Ven. Ñāṇavimala would guide him.

Ven. Ñāṇavimala was direct and sparing with detail. He would often prescribe specific Suttas or passages, but rarely elaborate on it at length. Other times he would share a story to inspire or to convey a certain Dhamma lesson. In meditation, he offered practical suggestions, yet refrained from outlining fixed techniques.

But being with him was like stepping through a doorway into the Buddha’s way of practice.

During his first retreat with Ven. Ñāṇavimala—then twenty-three years old and still a layman—Ven. Gnanaloka experienced the power of this approach. Rather than lengthy explanations, his teacher directed him to read through key Suttas. He gave a captivating explanation on the conditioned nature of consciousness and what it meant to final liberation, as Ven. Gnanaloka reflects

It’s not like intellectually pondering on this”, relating how he was trained “we have already had this habit of applying it to ourselves and looking at it.

On the last day of that retreat—the fourteenth day, a full moon—something broke through.

I will never forget that day,

Ven. Gnanaloka says.

That was the time I really felt I had faith in Bhante. I also felt: these Suttas, 2,600 years old—these are the real teachings. From our level of defilements, our interpretations have come.

The importance of the Suttas revealed itself

that was the first occasion where from the Suttas I had a perception of Dhamma.

Adding that

That was enough to inspire me to know that the Buddha is alive in these teachings. As well as to know that this could be the end of our journey. There is nothing else to do.

Ven. Gnanaloka recalls those days fondly. Being alongside his teacher, he felt an almost kindred connection.

I saw us like comrades in battle,

he says. A spiritual battle.

He began to understand that true understanding of the Suttas transcends intellectual study—it requires direct experience. These insights arise naturally in moments of quiet contemplation, when the mind is relaxed and free from expectation, whether reading a few words of the Buddha or contemplating a single teaching.

In 2005, Ven. Gnanaloka was staying in a cave in the hills of Badrinath, a sacred valley sealed off by towering Himalayan peaks. Each day, he would walk eight kilometers down the mountain for alms, then eight kilometers back up. He was having difficulties—a foreigner near the China border (Tibet region), permissions uncertain.

With the rains retreat approaching and needing to find a place to settle, an attendant devotee invited him to join a pilgrimage north. He left his bowl and extra robe behind and set out. Only along the way did he discover the route led to Leh, Ladakh—and he remembered he could contact a monk there. A senior monk named Bhikkhu Sangasena welcomed him to stay for the rains.

During his time in Leh, he confessed something to Bhikkhu Sangasena:

I feel I will not meet Venerable Ñāṇavimala again.

A few days later, descending from the monastery with an attendant devotee to make a phone call from a booth in town, he received the news. His teacher had passed away. The funeral was already over.

There was no grief—his practice had long ago released such attachments. Only profound gratitude. His teacher had given him everything that mattered: direct access to the Buddha’s teachings, and the living example of how to practice them.

Several months later, he was invited to the stupa consecration ceremony of Ven. Ñāṇavimala. A crowd of about a couple hundred gathered. At Parapaduwa Island Hermitage; an island hermitage adjacent to Polgasduwa—they expected him to speak—to share memories, to eulogize his teacher. Even his parents, present in the audience, encouraged him to say something.

But he refused.

I was very serious, he recalls. I didn’t want to be in the public eye. It was very personal for me—Bhante, my guru. Even the notes were very personal for me. I was waiting for that time, when it could be passed on.

Instead of speaking, he quietly went and worshipped where the ashes were kept. And in that silence

I made a vow

he says.

Though I’m not going to say anything now, in a hundred-fold I will help them, give them the teaching.

This book is the second flowering of that vow.

Something had been pulling him forward long before. When asked decades later why he’d felt compelled to record everything, he paused. A long pause.

Somehow, I knew it was precious,

he said finally.

Even then, I didn’t quite know why—only that it had to be preserved.

He had simply acted—reached for the notebook again and again without asking why. Some instinct beyond language, beyond decision. It felt as if it had a destiny beyond his own understanding.

When we first proposed creating this book, Ven. Gnanaloka’s response was immediate:

Let it be anonymous. Release the notes.

He insisted the focus should be on his teacher.

For an ascetic monk who had spent three decades cultivating self-effacement, the idea of a book bearing his name contradicted everything he’d trained for.

I am training to dismantle this idea of self,

he would say—not to perpetuate it. But we had a problem: the notes alone—concise, sometimes cryptic, written in the shorthand of direct experience—couldn’t reach beyond those already deep in practice.

To serve wider audiences, they needed context: the spirit in which they were spoken, the question that prompted them, the life that gave them weight. They needed his voice, his memories, his stories.

Which meant he couldn’t remain anonymous.

Eventually, he agreed—not for himself, but for the teachings. For his teacher’s legacy. For the vow he’d made.

The work took nearly two years. Meeting him was no easy matter. As an ascetic, he moved between an undisclosed location and Sri Sambuddha Ramaneeya Ashramaya Forest Hermitage—nestled in forest surrounded by villages. Evening meetings with devotees and young monks would often run late. We learned to wait.

When we finally did meet—a little over ten times over those two years—he was remarkably generous with his time. Sessions would begin near midnight and continue until three or four in the morning. The world was silent. His recollections, perhaps even sharper at night, ranged freely.

We’d read him his own notes, written decades earlier. Stories spilled out—details that hadn’t made it into the original entries, moments he’d forgotten, teachings that needed the context of place and time to make sense. These became the reflections that accompany the notes in this book—the stories behind the teachings, the moments that gave them life.

His public talks—which we’d studied closely—were measured, each word like a mindful step. But here, in person what was expressed was deeper.

Months into the process, during one such late-night session, he said something that stopped us.

Sometimes when I read,

he began carefully,

I was in tears actually.

He explained:

I don’t go back to memories of those experiences. I am not trained to go back to those memories that much. It’s a big strain for me. If I want to, maybe I have to specially make an effort.

But the book had done what his own will wouldn’t—it brought him back.

It brought me to those feelings of saddha—faith,

he said.

I’ll never forget. And it’s very clear. Bhante’s talking of the same points, especially now when I’m reading—the same way.

He paused, then added something we hadn’t anticipated.

I was also doubtful—did I tell the exact details?

We understood then what it meant to be entrusted with something precious.

Ven Gnanaloka would sometimes tell us as he left Sri Sambuddha Ramaneeya Ashramaya Forest Hermitage

don’t think we have much time left.

This cryptic line often puzzled us, however Ven. Gnanaloka explained. Now having come of age of fifty four, there is great need for service and fulfilling of his duty. He would compare his life to the timeframe of a day,

when you look at it from the perspective of a day, I am approaching the evening.

This book was carefully reviewed by a team of eight, including Ven. Bhikkhu Anandajoti and Mr. Chittapala—both instrumental in compiling ‘Pure Inspiration: Ven. Ñāṇavimala Mahāthera—Recollections of His Life, Practice and Teachings’ and who knew Ven. Ñāṇavimala personally—together with two other monastic practitioners and four lay practitioners. The process involved extensive research: reviewing hundreds of hours of Ven. Gnanaloka’s public talks in Sinhala and English, studying the Suttas referenced in the notes, cross-checking dates and details, and consulting existing literature such as Pure Inspiration.

As for the writing team, between us we brought nearly fifty years of meditation practice—one with a background in social research and conducting interviews, and three with management and senior leadership experience—deeply influenced by time in Saddhammadhara Sutta retreats with Ven. Gnanaloka, as well as experience in traditions such as the Thai Forest, Mahāsi, and Goenka lineages. We weren’t monks or scholars. We were practitioners. We knew the landscape of practice well enough to recognize authentic teaching when we heard it.

Venerable Gnanaloka trusted us to help bring these teachings forward—a responsibility we’ve tried to honor. Much of this work was done at Sri Sambuddha Ramaneeya Ashramaya Forest Hermitage during retreats—an environment of practice that shaped our reflections.

The original notes are Ven. Gnanaloka’s, written between 1994 and 2001. The Reflections—the stories surrounding those notes—are our attempt to transmit faithfully what we researched and heard in those midnight sessions.

The Volunteer Writers & Editors