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. On paper, it looks orderly—full of maps, stages, and clear diagrams.
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. And somehow, when I think of Anagarika Munindra, that mess doesn’t feel like a mistake.
The Late-Night Clarity of the Human Mess
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. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, 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’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. A race to gain knowledge, to fix myself, and to reach some imagined spiritual goal. Even meditation becomes another thing to be good at. Another silent competition with myself. That is exactly how we lose touch with our own humanity.
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. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. 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 is simply a state of being—a passing phenomenon, whether it lingers or not.
This evening, I became aware of a low-grade grumpiness for no obvious cause. 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. 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 don’t know if Munindra would’ve anagarika munindra said that. I wasn’t there. But the way people talk about him, it sounds like he trusted the process without turning it into a rigid machine. 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 remained right in the middle of it.
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 thinking again. Normal.
That is precisely what I find so compelling about his legacy. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The freedom from the need to treat every sit as a spiritual achievement. 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. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, 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.