It occurs to me that Munindra’s approach to the mind was akin to a long-term friendship—unrushed, accepting of imperfections, and profoundly patient. I cannot shake the feeling that the practice of insight is far more chaotic than the idealized versions we read about. Not in real life, anyway. In books, sure. In charts, diagrams, progress maps.
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.
Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
It’s late again. I don’t know why these thoughts only show up at night. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. My phone is silenced, and the air still holds the trace of burnt incense, mingled with the smell of old dust. 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 remember reading that Munindra didn’t rush people. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. 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. I even turn the cushion into a stadium, making practice another arena for self-competition. 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. 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. He wouldn't have categorized it as an enemy to be conquered. It is merely boredom—a condition that arises, stays, or goes. It doesn't matter.
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 felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. And then there was this soft internal reminder, click here not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This experience is valid. It is part of the practice.
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 trusted people, too. That feels rare. 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 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. And then thinking again. Normal.
Ultimately, that is the quality of Munindra that remains in my thoughts. 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 sits are just sits. 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 it feel less like a test and more like a long, awkward friendship with my own mind. And perhaps that is sufficient reason to return to the cushion tomorrow, regardless of the results.