Sometimes I think Anagarika Munindra understood meditation the same way people understand old friends—imperfectly, patiently, without needing them to change overnight. I am repeatedly struck by the realization that Vipassanā is rarely as tidy as the textbooks suggest. Not in real life, anyway. In books, sure. In charts, diagrams, progress maps.
But the reality of sitting involves numb limbs and a posture that won't stay straight, mind replaying conversations from ten years ago for no reason, it’s messy as hell. Yet, through the lens of Munindra’s presence, that very mess ceases to feel like a failure.
Night Reflections: When the Mind Stops Pretending
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, blended with a hint of dust. I suddenly realize how much tension I'm holding in my jaw. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I remember reading that Munindra didn’t rush people. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. I hold onto that detail because I spend so much of my own time in a state of constant hurry. Rushing to understand, rushing to improve, rushing to get somewhere else mentally. I even turn the cushion into a stadium, making practice another arena for self-competition. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
Befriending Boredom and Irritation
On many days, the sit is entirely unspectacular, dominated by a dense cloud of boredom. The type of dullness that makes you crave an end to the session. In the past, I saw boredom as a sign of doing it "wrong," but I'm beginning to doubt that. In my mind, Munindra’s presence doesn't react with panic toward a bored mind. He wouldn't have categorized it as an enemy to be conquered. It’s just… boredom. A state. A thing passing through. Or not passing through. Either way.
A few hours ago, I felt a surge of unexplained irritation. There was no specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. My immediate reaction was to drive it away; the habit of self-correction is deeply ingrained. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. Then, a gentle internal shift occurred—a subtle realization that even this state is part of the path. This experience is valid. It is part of the practice.
Consistency Over Performance
I cannot say for certain if those were his words, as I never met him. Yet, the accounts of his life suggest he had a profound trust in the natural unfolding of the Dhamma rather than treating it as a predictable, industrial operation. He also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. This is especially notable in spiritual circles where power dynamics often become problematic. He didn’t seem interested in playing the role of someone above the mess. He remained right in the middle of it.
My limb went numb a while ago, and I gave in and shifted my position, despite my intentions. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. And then, the internal dialogue resumed. Normal.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The freedom from the need to treat every sit as a spiritual achievement. Some evenings have no grand meaning, and some sits are just sitting. Many get more info minds are simply noisy, fatigued, and resistant.
I remain uncertain about many things—about my growth and the final destination. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, makes it feel less like a test and more like a long, awkward friendship with my own mind. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.