Sometimes I think Anagarika Munindra understood meditation the same way people understand old friends—imperfectly, patiently, without needing them to change overnight. I keep coming back to this weird feeling that Vipassanā isn’t as clean as people want it to be. At least, not in the realm of actual experience. In the literature, everything is categorized into neat charts and developmental milestones.
Yet, in the middle of a sit, dealing with physical discomfort and a slumping spine, 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.
Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
It’s late again. I don’t know why these thoughts only show up at night. It might be because the distractions of the day have died down, leaving the traffic hushed. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, mixed with something dusty. I become aware that my jaw is clenched, though I can't say when it began. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. That he let students struggle, doubt, loop back, mess up. I hold onto that detail because I spend so much of my own time in a state of constant hurry. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. I even turn the cushion into a stadium, making practice another arena for self-competition. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
Munindra’s Trust in the Natural Process
There are days when I sit and feel nothing special at all. Just boredom. Heavy boredom. The sort of tedium that compels you to glance at the timer despite your vows. I used to think that meant I was doing it wrong. Now I’m not so sure. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about boredom. It doesn’t label it as an obstacle that needs smashing. It is simply a state of being—a passing phenomenon, whether it lingers or not.
A few hours ago, I felt a surge of unexplained irritation. No trigger. No drama. Just this low-grade grumpiness sitting in my chest. I wanted it gone. Immediately. That urge to fix is strong. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. And then there was this soft internal reminder, not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This counts. This is part of the deal.
The Courage to Be Normal
I have no way of knowing if he would have phrased it that way. Yet, the accounts of his life suggest he had a profound trust in the natural unfolding of the Dhamma refusing to treat it like a cold, mechanical system. He trusted people, too. That feels rare. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He didn't pretend to be an exalted figure who was far removed from the struggles of life. 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 tiny rebellion that my internal critic noted immediately—of course. Then there was a brief moment of silence. Not deep. Not cosmic. Just a gap. And then thinking again. Normal.
That is precisely what I find so compelling about his legacy. The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. Some nights are just nights. Some sits are just sits. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I remain uncertain about many things—about my growth and the final destination. About whether I’m website patient enough for this path. 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.