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, while the mind drifts into useless memories of the past, everything feels completely disorganized. Yet, through the lens of Munindra’s presence, that very mess ceases to feel like a failure.
Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
The hour is late, and as usual, these reflections only surface when the world is quiet. 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, mingled with the smell of old 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’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. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. Meditation often transforms into just another skill to master—a quiet battle for self-improvement. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
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 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. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about 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.
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 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 pretend to be an exalted figure who was far removed from the struggles of life. He was comfortable within the mess.
My limb went numb a while ago, and I gave in and shifted my position, despite my intentions. A small rebellion. The mind instantly commented on it. Of course it did. 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 permission to be normal while practicing something profound. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. Some nights are just nights. Some thien su munindra sits are just sits. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I still harbor many doubts regarding my progress and the goal of the path. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. But remembering the human side of Vipassanā, the side Munindra seemed to embody, transforms the practice from a rigid examination into a long-term, clumsy friendship with myself. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.