I have a growing sense that Anagarika Munindra viewed meditation much like one views a lifelong friend: with all its flaws, with immense patience, and without the demand for instant transformation. I keep coming back to this weird feeling that Vipassanā isn’t as clean as people want it to be. Not in real life, anyway. In books, sure. In charts, diagrams, progress maps.
But when I’m actually sitting there, legs numb, back slightly crooked, with a mind obsessively revisiting decade-old dialogues, the experience is incredibly messy. Yet, through the lens of Munindra’s presence, that very mess ceases to feel like a failure.
The Late-Night Clarity of the Human Mess
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. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, mixed with something dusty. I suddenly realize how much tension I'm holding in my jaw. 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. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. A race to gain knowledge, to fix myself, and to reach some imagined spiritual goal. Meditation often transforms into just another skill to master—a quiet battle for self-improvement. 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. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about 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 specific event, just a persistent, dull anger 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 here to observe. 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. However, the stories of his teaching imply a deep faith in the process of awakening 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 stayed in it.
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. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
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 relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. Some evenings have no grand meaning, and some sits are just sitting. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. About whether I’m patient enough for this path. But remembering the human side of Vipassanā, the side Munindra seemed to embody, 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.