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 cannot shake the feeling that the practice of insight is far more chaotic than the idealized versions we read about. In practice, it certainly doesn't feel organized. On paper, it looks orderly—full of maps, stages, and clear diagrams.
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. Yet, through the lens of Munindra’s presence, that very mess ceases to feel like a failure.
The Quiet Honesty of the Midnight Hour
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. Perhaps it is because the external noise has finally faded, and the street is silent. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I suddenly realize how much tension I'm holding in my jaw. 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. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. Meditation often transforms into just another skill to master—a quiet battle for self-improvement. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
The Validity of the Unspectacular
There are days when I sit and feel nothing special at all. Just boredom. Heavy boredom. The kind that makes you check the clock even though you promised you wouldn’t. 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’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 external drama was needed; the irritation simply sat there, heavy and quiet. 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 is not an interruption; it is the work itself.
The Courage to Be Normal
I don’t know if Munindra would’ve said that. I wasn’t there. But the way people talk about him, it sounds like he trusted the process refusing to treat it like a cold, mechanical system. He trusted people, too. That feels rare. This is especially notable in spiritual circles where power dynamics often become problematic. He didn’t seem interested in playing the role of someone above the mess. He was comfortable within the mess.
My limb went numb a while ago, and I gave in and shifted my position, despite my intentions. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. Then there was a brief moment of silence. Not deep. Not cosmic. Just a gap. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. Some nights are just nights. Some sits are just sits. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I remain uncertain about many things—about my growth and the final destination. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, makes the path feel less like a series of tests and more like an ongoing, awkward companionship get more info with my own mind. And perhaps that is sufficient reason to return to the cushion tomorrow, regardless of the results.