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. 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, 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.
The Quiet Honesty of the Midnight Hour
The hour is late, and as usual, these reflections only surface when the world is quiet. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I notice my jaw’s tight. I didn’t notice when it started. 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. 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. In that striving, the actual human experience is sacrificed.
When the "Fix-It" Mind Meets the Dhamma
Some sessions offer nothing profound—only an overwhelming, heavy sense of 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. In my mind, Munindra’s presence doesn't react with panic toward a bored mind. He didn't see it as a barrier to be destroyed. 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. My immediate reaction was to drive it away; the habit of self-correction is deeply ingrained. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. But then came a quiet intuition, suggesting that even this irritation belongs here. This counts. This is part of the deal.
The Long, Awkward Friendship with the Mind
I cannot say for certain if those were his words, as I never met him. 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 didn't pretend to be an exalted figure who was far removed from the struggles of life. He stayed in 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. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. And then thinking again. Normal.
Ultimately, that is the quality of Munindra that remains in my thoughts. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The freedom from the need to treat every sit as a spiritual achievement. There are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. 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. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that thien su munindra Munindra personified, transforms the practice from a rigid examination into a long-term, clumsy friendship with myself. And that is enough of a reason to show up again tomorrow, even if the sit is entirely ordinary.