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. At least, not in the realm of actual experience. In books, sure. In charts, diagrams, progress maps.
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. And somehow, when I think of Anagarika Munindra, that mess doesn’t feel like a mistake.
The Quiet Honesty of the Midnight Hour
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. 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, mixed with something dusty. 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’ve read that Munindra possessed a rare quality of never hurrying the process for anyone. That he let students struggle, doubt, loop back, mess up. That specific trait resonates with me, as my entire existence feels like a race. Rushing to understand, rushing to improve, rushing to get somewhere else mentally. Even meditation becomes another thing to be good at. Another silent competition with myself. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
Munindra’s Trust in the Natural Process
On many days, the sit is entirely unspectacular, dominated by a dense cloud of boredom. The kind that makes you check the clock even though you promised you wouldn’t. 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 didn't see it as a barrier to be destroyed. It is merely boredom—a condition that arises, stays, or goes. It doesn't matter.
This evening, I became aware of a low-grade grumpiness for no obvious cause. There was no click here specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. I wanted it gone. Immediately. That urge to fix is strong. Stronger than mindfulness sometimes. Then, a gentle internal shift occurred—a subtle realization that even this state is part of the path. 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. But the way people talk about him, it sounds like he trusted the process refusing to treat it like a cold, mechanical system. He also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended the human condition. He remained right in the middle of it.
My leg fell asleep about ten minutes ago. I shifted slightly even though I told myself not to. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. This was followed by a short interval of quiet—not a mystical state, just a simple pause. And then thinking again. Normal.
That is precisely what I find so compelling about his legacy. The permission to be normal while practicing something profound. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. There are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. But remembering the human side of Vipassanā, the side Munindra seemed to embody, 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.