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. In practice, it certainly doesn't feel organized. 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, with a mind obsessively revisiting decade-old dialogues, the experience is incredibly messy. Somehow, remembering Munindra makes me feel that this chaos isn't a sign that I'm doing it wrong.
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. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, blended with a hint of dust. I notice my jaw’s tight. I didn’t notice when it started. Tension is a subtle intruder; it infiltrates the body so quietly that it feels natural.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. He allowed them the space to fail, to question, and to wander in circles. 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. That is exactly how we lose touch with our own humanity.
When the "Fix-It" Mind Meets the Dhamma
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. In the past, I saw boredom as a sign of doing it "wrong," but I'm beginning to doubt that. Munindra’s way, as I perceive it, remains unruffled by the presence of boredom. 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.
Earlier this evening, I noticed irritation bubbling up for no clear reason. No trigger. No drama. Just this low-grade grumpiness sitting in my chest. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. At times, that urge is far more potent than my actual awareness. And then there was this soft internal reminder, not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This experience is valid. It is part of the practice.
Consistency Over Performance
I don’t know if Munindra would’ve said that. I wasn’t there. But the way people talk about him, it sounds like website he trusted the process 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 was comfortable within the mess.
For the last ten minutes, my leg has been insensate, and I finally moved, breaking my own rule. A small rebellion. The mind instantly commented on it. Of course it did. This was followed by a short interval of quiet—not a mystical state, just a simple pause. And then, the internal dialogue resumed. Normal.
Ultimately, that is the quality of Munindra that remains in my thoughts. The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. Some evenings have no grand meaning, and some sits are just sitting. 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 patient enough for this path. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, makes the path feel less like a series of tests and more like an ongoing, awkward companionship with my own mind. And that is enough of a reason to show up again tomorrow, even if the sit is entirely ordinary.