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 am repeatedly struck by the realization that Vipassanā is rarely as tidy as the textbooks suggest. In practice, it certainly doesn't feel organized. In the literature, everything is categorized into neat charts and developmental milestones.
But when I’m actually sitting there, legs numb, back slightly crooked, mind replaying conversations from ten years ago for no reason, it’s messy as hell. Somehow, remembering Munindra makes me feel that this chaos isn't a sign that I'm doing it wrong.
The Late-Night Clarity of the Human Mess
It’s late again. I don’t know why these thoughts only show up at night. 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 remember reading that Munindra didn’t rush people. 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. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. I even turn the cushion into a stadium, making practice another arena for self-competition. That is exactly how we lose touch with our own humanity.
Munindra’s Trust in the Natural Process
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. I used to think that meant I was doing it wrong. Now I’m not so sure. Munindra’s way, as I perceive it, remains unruffled by the presence of boredom. It doesn’t label it as an obstacle that needs smashing. 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. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. Stronger than mindfulness sometimes. And then there was this soft internal reminder, not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.
A Legacy Without Authority Games
I have no way of knowing if he would have phrased it that way. 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 seemed to have a genuine faith in people, which is a rare quality. Especially in spiritual spaces where authority can get weird fast. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended the human condition. He was comfortable within the mess.
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. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
That is precisely what I find so compelling about his legacy. The click here 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. Many minds are simply noisy, fatigued, and resistant.
I remain uncertain about many things—about my growth and the final destination. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that 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.